Master and Servant (Waterman)

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "What?" For a moment, he was sure he had misheard.

  "I want you to remove your clothes." There was a dangerous quietness about Carruthers's voice now.

  "But—"

  He spoke only that single word – in retrospect, it was the worst word he could have chosen – before Carruthers seized Meredith's hair and yanked his head back, forcing their gazes to meet.

  "Meredith," Carruthers said slowly, deliberately, "I have told you what service I require. Do not make me repeat my command again."

  Meredith might have been able to convince himself that he had mistaken the import of that command, if it had not been for the Head's hand, pulling back Meredith's head till his neck was stretched bare to Carruthers's pleasure, like the father of a household baring the neck of a condemned hog, on the eve of the Slaves' Autumn Festival. Carruthers's gaze was steady and methodical upon Meredith's. For a moment, the only sounds were coal falling in the grate, cocoa bubbling and hissing as it boiled over, and the distant chatter of students returning to their rooms. Then Carruthers released his hold on Meredith. He stepped back.

  Somehow, Meredith managed to stumble to his feet. Blindly he made his way toward the bed. At the foot of the bed was a table, in the traditional position where liegemen – and servants, back in the days when servants had provided such service – were supposed to place their clothes when they stripped for bed-service. Meredith fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, looking down at a glittering object on the table: Carruthers's dagger, which Meredith had never seen him wear except at chapel.

  "If you're going to kill me, do it now."

  Meredith looked back at the Head. Carruthers added softly, "I don't want to go to sleep each night after this with my back quivering in anticipation of the blow."

  Slowly Meredith shook his head and turned his attention to his suspenders, though his mind whispered over and over the words "each night." He had no desire to attack Carruthers, for how could he blame the Head for what had happened? This was not a rape; Carruthers had freely offered Meredith the opportunity to refuse him this type of service. Only Meredith's idealistic dreams – and his unwillingness to heed the warning of the boys he had overheard by the lamphouse – had caused him to ascribe pure motives to Carruthers.

  Carruthers had given Meredith the opportunity to say no; he had dealt more fairly with Meredith than any dredger had ever before dealt with a Third Landsteader, politely asking his permission before licking his bar. It was not Carruthers's fault that Meredith was foolish enough to have held dreams of serving a master who wanted him for his own sake, not because Meredith could serve as a handy tool to achieve victory over an opponent.

  He felt cold all through his bones now. The cold had nothing to do with the temperature in the room; any footer player endured worse temperatures than this, playing during the spring term. He felt as though his heart had frozen inside, leaving nothing to bother him with hopes or dreams in the future. He would endure this, as he had endured Rudd's rapes and the prefects' beatings and Pembroke's indifference and the scorn or disappointment of everyone else around him. He would endure this, because that was the only role he had been left in life: to undergo pain at other men's behest.

  "To the bed."

  Now fully stripped, he followed Carruthers's command, pulling back the blankets and top-sheet carefully. He did not know in which position Carruthers wished him placed, so he lay down on his back on the cool sheet, staring up at the ceiling. It was very dark on this side of the room, far from the lamplight and the fire. He could hear students in the corridor, laughing and exchanging friendly remarks.

  The mattress moved as it took on Carruthers's weight. Meredith continued to stare at the ceiling until Carruthers's hand once again forced his head into the position he wanted, so that their gazes met. The Head had stripped himself only of his blazer and vest; like Rudd, he evidently preferred to remain clothed when taking his naked lads.

  "Meredith," Carruthers said, his voice low, no doubt in order to hide their activities from the students outside, "there is nothing to fear. I won't hurt you."

  Meredith supposed that must be true, after a fashion. He could not imagine Carruthers engaging in the wild rutting that pleased Rudd. Carruthers would probably be gentle, as he might be gentle to a boat he had chosen to captain, seeking to save his valuable property from unnecessary damage. But no, that image was wrong: Meredith did not belong to Carruthers. He was not a boat to be loved and used for years; he was simply a tool for the moment, to be discarded when the task was complete. Meredith wondered how many days it would be before his usefulness ended.

  He had not, it seemed, succeeded in icing over the last of his hopes, for he heard himself say, "Sir, I know that you must tell Rudd about this. I know that that's the whole point. But if you could . . . if you could keep from laughing when you do. I can bear anything but that you should laugh at what you've done to me . . ."

  His voice faded as he saw the first signs of anger entering Carruthers's face, in the form of a furrowed brow. Meredith stiffened, waiting to see whether the Head would keep his other promise, not to hit Meredith in anger.

  The Head said slowly, "What are you talking—?"

  And then he was out of the bed, towering over Meredith, like a forward towering over a fallen player. "Oh, sweet blood." And this time there was no mistaking the darkness of his quiet. "You think I'm doing this as a rag?"

  And with those words, Meredith's world fell apart as he realized that, with his own words, he had destroyed the fulfillment of his dreams.

  "If you've thought that, why did you come to my—?" And now Carruthers's anger gave way to something infinitely more dangerous: a tone as cold as a blade slid between the ribs. "I see. This is your way of having revenge on Rudd."

  Choked by Carruthers's words, Meredith could not reply; in the next moment, he had lost the opportunity, for Carruthers strode over to his desk, kicked the chair aside with such force that it toppled to the ground, and then stood leaning over the desk, his clenched fists hard upon the wood, his knuckles turning white.

  "Sir . . ." Meredith, scrambling up into a sitting position, managed to breathe that single word.

  "I think you should go."

  Pembroke's coldness seemed positively tropical now, in comparison to the chill in Carruthers's voice. His tone was as effective as always in making others act; Meredith was fully clothed and on his way to the door before he woke from his stupor. He looked back at the Head. Carruthers had not moved his position. His head was bowed as he stared down at the desk.

  Suddenly, with a wild impulse that caused him to slip free of the hook of Carruthers's voice, Meredith flew across the room and skidded to a halt at Carruthers's side.

  "Sir," he said breathlessly, "I know what I was said was wrong, but I didn't realize— That is, I heard some boys from your House saying you wanted to make use of me for a rag—"

  He faltered as Carruthers turned his head, his expression now as blank as a locked door. Hearing what he himself had just said – the terrible wrongness of it – Meredith quickly added, "I know that there's no excuse for what I did. I know that I don't deserve the privilege of serving you, after I showed so little faith in you. I just want you to know: this isn't about Master Rudd for me, it was never about Master Rudd, I've dreamed for months of serving you, even before Master Pembroke—" He swallowed and said finally, "Sir, I know I should have come to you at once when you requested my presence here last autumn. It was wrong of me to have waited; it was wrong of me to have doubted you. I just didn't know . . . I wasn't sure . . . Sir, I've had no one to tell me what to do, because I have no master."

  The words – especially the final word – seemed to echo in the room, like an infinite cycle of rebirths. Meredith began to step away, but Carruthers's voice – deadly calm – hooked him again. "Sit over there, please."

  Meredith went where he was directed, to the battered sofa. He sank down, feeling himself begin to shake again. Every word he had spoken
in this room had been the wrong word to speak; every action he had taken was wrong. He might as well fling himself into the cold waters of Richland Cove and see whether there was any hope that he would be allowed to be reborn and do better in his next life. But there seemed no hope even of rebirth. He sat on the sofa, his soul shrivelled.

  Time passed. Through the window came the harsh croak of a black-crowned night heron. The corridor was still. Carruthers's shadow touched Meredith on his left side.

  Meredith managed to say, "Thank you for giving me a minute to collect myself, sir. I won't impose myself on you any further—"

  He started to rise, but Carruthers gave him no opportunity. Suddenly the Head was sitting on the sofa too, the history book swept aside as he placed his arms round Meredith. Tenderly, as a liege-master comforts his wounded liegeman.

  Meredith lost all control then. He buried his face upon Carruthers's shoulder and proceeded to weep as though he might weep away all the pain of the six sun-circuits since he entered school. Carruthers's arms remained around him, warm and firm; one of his hands stroked Meredith's back. Nearly hysterical now, Meredith pressed his mouth against Carruthers's shirt, trying to smother his sobs so that they would not carry beyond the room. He felt Carruthers's body enfolding his, like a living dream.

  Finally, after many minutes, he managed to still himself. He pulled himself back, still blinded by tears; a moment later, he saw that Carruthers was offering his handkerchief. He took it gratefully and managed to wipe his face clean. He could see now the wet spot he had left on Carruthers's shirt.

  Carruthers waited until he had handed the handkerchief back before he said, "I should apologize."

  "Sir?" croaked Meredith, with the same bafflement he had felt at the beginning of their conversation that evening.

  "I wronged you greatly. I assumed that I knew what service you wished to offer; I assumed that I knew your motive for obeying my orders to provide me with bed-service; I assumed far too much, on far too little evidence. No, listen to me—" This, as protests began to reach Meredith's lips. "I should apologize . . . but the fact is, I can't help but feel as though we're like players in a drama. It's as though we're in one of those comedies where every word spoken between the players builds up misunderstandings, until the truth is finally revealed, and the breach is healed."

  Unexpectedly, Meredith felt his mouth touched by a flicker of a smile. "Like Mehetabel and Micah."

  "Exactly." Carruthers paused, and then placed his hand over Meredith's. "Let's begin once more from the beginning. I promise you that I won't make the mistake again of assuming that I know what your thoughts are. In return, I ask that you remain open and honest with me. People tend to assume that, since my uncle is skilled at reading people, I share the same talent. Nothing could be further from the truth. I have very little skill in guessing the unspoken thoughts and feelings of other people. So I need your help. I need it badly."

  Meredith stared at him, forgetting, for a moment, that he should not stare into the eyes of the heir of the Second Landstead. So this was what lay behind his many dreams of Carruthers as the perfect master. Not a strong, wise, infallible young man, but a young man oddly like himself: stumbling, groping for answers – and yet no less strong and wise than Meredith had imagined him to be. Perhaps part of his wisdom and strength lay in recognizing his limitations. And perhaps – the truth pierced Meredith like that hook which still bound him to Carruthers – oh, perhaps it had taken Carruthers till now to recognize the truth about Meredith's limitations, behind whatever idealistic notions the Head had held of the perfection of the lad he had chosen to serve him.

  The voices had faded in the corridor. Students were beginning to settle down for the final activities of the evening: studying or playing games or offering service to their liege-masters. Faintly, through the window, came the sounds of the Bay at night: the shudder of waves against the shore, the whistle of a passing steamer, the cry of a lonely loon. Meredith almost imagined he could smell the salt-sweet scent of the waters.

  "A while ago," said Carruthers, "you knelt down to me and spoke . . . certain words."

  Biting his lip, Meredith stared down at Carruthers's hand, which still covered his.

  Carruthers said quietly, "I have spoken those words too, to my High Master, and I have performed the obeisance to him; my uncle is a man who appreciates the traditional courtesies due from a liegeman to his liege-master. Is that why you asked what service I required of you? Because you wish me to be your liege-master?"

  Meredith bit his lip so hard that it hurt. It would be so easy, he thought miserably, to say yes. He would be spared the look of bitter disappointment that Pembroke always gave Meredith when he called Pembroke "master" or failed to show initiative or did anything else that hinted he was weak in his mastership. He could not bear the thought of seeing that look of disappointment on Carruthers's face, or of being sent away again.

  But Carruthers wished him to be honest. He said in a faint voice, "No, sir."

  After a while, he forced himself to look up. Carruthers was not staring at him, but at the fireplace, his eyes reflecting the light from the glowing coals. He said, without looking at Meredith, "A liegeman provides service to his liege-master. You are a third-ranked master; you have plenty of opportunities to offer service to masters above your rank. Why is that not enough for you?"

  Feeling shame burn his cheeks, he struggled to remain honest. "A lesser master provides service, but he also provides mastership. He must guide, direct, take initiative, receive service. I – I'm not good at that. I don't mean," he added hastily, though Carruthers had not spoken, "that I'm unwilling to do that. I know that it's my duty, and I try to do it every day. But – it's not easy for me. Not the way serving is." His voice trailed away.

  Carruthers looked at him then, his eyes somber now that the firelight could no longer be seen in them. "You are currently fighting a court case to have your rank as a master confirmed."

  This time it was Meredith who looked away. He nodded, swallowing a hardness in his throat.

  "Why?" persisted Carruthers. "Because your father wants you to?"

  "Partly." Meredith whispered.

  Carruthers waited. Meredith turned his attention again to Carruthers's hand, warm over his. He said finally, "My mother was a servant."

  "Yes."

  Meredith took a deep breath. He was sure that Carruthers knew the story – everyone in school must know the story – but there was a comfort in telling the tale to someone who knew the full truth about him. "My parents were both servants when they first met. My father applied to become a master, and he was accepted. He was one of the last servants to be raised to the rank of master before the Act of Celadon and Brun was revoked. When my parents fell in love, shortly before my father's new rank was confirmed, my mother applied to be raised to the rank of mastress, so that she and my father could be wife and husband. My father's liege-master – Master Pembroke's father – assured my parents that approval of my mother's application was a mere formality. He even permitted them to marry, though masters aren't supposed to be married to servants. There'd never been a case where a male servant was raised in rank to master without his wife being raised as well; my father thought that it would help matters legally if the two of them were married. And – and they consummated the marriage, because they were so sure that my mother would be raised in rank."

  Coals dropped in the fireplace, rustling against the grate; the fire was dying down. Meredith could feel the cool air raising bumps across his skin. He kept his gaze focussed on Carruthers's hand.

  "And then the Act of Celadon and Brun was revoked," he continued. "Nobody had expected that. It hadn't even been scheduled for discussion at the High Masters' quarterly. But it was revoked, and immediately all of the petitions for servants rising in rank were halted, while the courts argued over whether the applications already in process should be permitted to go through. Eventually they decided that the applications in process could be approved. But t
wo days before that happened, I was born. And my mother died."

  Carruthers had begun to stroke Meredith's hand, his thumb running lightly over Meredith's, like warm wind. Struggling to keep his voice steady, Meredith said, "If a mother is a servant, then her child is a servant, no matter what rank the father is. That's what the high law says. But my mother was only two days away from being named a mastress when she died while giving birth to me, and her application had only been delayed because the courts had been arguing over the change in law. Otherwise, she would have been a mastress many months before my birth. So my father's liege-master gave me the provisional status of a third-ranked master, and my father petitioned the courts to confirm my rank. The courts have been arguing ever since then whether I should remain a master. They can't decide, so the High Masters have agreed to settle the question next summer, at their quarterly."

  Meredith raised his eyes in order to look at Carruthers. "It is partly for my father's sake that I'm asking the courts to keep me a master. He has fought half his life for this. But he hasn't just fought it for my sake – he has fought it for the sake of the servants who want to become masters and mastresses, but who can't, because the Act of Celadon and Brun was revoked. It was revoked because most of the High Masters believe that you can't act like a master unless you have a master's blood in you, through both parents. If they decide that I deserve a master's rank, that will show that this isn't true – it will show that I can act as a master even though my mother was a servant when she died, and my father was a servant not long before that. So maybe, because of my case, the High Masters will consider the possibility of reversing their decision and allowing the Act of Celadon and Brun to become high law again. That's why I want to be named a master."

  "Even though," Carruthers said softly, "you are actually a servant."

  Feeling as though he had been slapped, Meredith turned his head quickly away, blinking back tears. Carruthers's hand stilled upon his. There was a long silence, broken only by the whisper of the dying coals. Then Carruthers said, "It is a humbling experience for me to witness the deeds of Celadon played out before me."

  Startled, he looked back at the Head. "Sir?"

  Carruthers's gaze danced over his face; then he smiled. "That truly hadn't occurred to you? That you are doing what Celadon did?"

  "I—" He had to swallow before continuing. "I had thought sometimes that Remigeus/Celadon would have understood. 'In every slave there is a master,' someone in his time said—"

  "And he showed that, by taking on the duties of a High Master in his incarnation as Celadon, even though he was inwardly a slave. And you are doing the same: you are petitioning to be a master for duty's sake, even though you are inwardly a servant."

  He felt an overwhelming lightness fill him then, as though a crushing weight had been lifted from him. And at that same moment, something that had been speaking in the back of his mind all this while whispered loudly enough for him to hear. He jerked as he abruptly sat upright. "The words you spoke! When I knelt down in front of you, the words you spoke to me were the words that Brun spoke to Remigeus/Celadon when he first made Celadon his slave!"

  Carruthers was looking puzzled now. "Of course. Everything I said and did to you in those first few minutes was said and done by Brun to his slave. Didn't you know?"

  "No, sir. The edition I own of The Tale of Celadon and Brun is abridged. After Brun tells Remigeus/Celadon, 'Remove your clothes,' the text skips to the part where Brun taught his new slave to build a fire."

  "Ah." Carefully, Carruthers pulled back his hand and rose to his feet. Gesturing to Meredith to stay where he was, he walked over to his bookcase, examined it for a moment, and removed a book. He returned to his seat and handed the book to Meredith.

  "You have given me a new appreciation of my father," Carruthers said. "Any books he gave me were uncensored. You'll find the passage where I've bookmarked it."

  The book fell open to the bookmarked pages easily; it was clear that these were the pages that Carruthers had read most often. Meredith read the passage, feeling heat enter his body as he reached the point in the tale where Brun took Celadon to his bed. When Meredith finally reached Brun's words, "There is nothing to fear. I won't hurt you," he looked up. Carruthers was scrutinizing his face.

  "I'm sorry, sir," Meredith said quietly. "I spoiled everything, panicking in bed like that. Celadon was afraid too when his new master took him to bed, but he remained obedient to Brun."

  "No," said Carruthers, toying with the bookmark, "the fault was mine, for assuming that you were offering that type of service to me. I won't make that mistake again. —No, listen," he added as Meredith tried to speak. "I want to explain something – something that will make clear why I made the error I did tonight, in assuming that you had come here to offer me your bed-service. It is not that I have no appreciation for other types of service – that is far from the case. But this has been the one area of my life that has presented me with . . . difficulties. You see, the only sexual desire I feel is for servants."

  Meredith stared at him; and then his stomach churned as he wondered whether he had doomed matters from the moment he told Carruthers that he aspired to the rank of master. Licking his lips, he said, "You . . . you must have many choices there."

  "No. Not since the passage of the Abuse of Power Act, which forbids masters from taking servants to their beds. And even without that act . . . Meredith, if I had told you tonight, at the moment of your arrival, that I wanted you to serve me in bed, and you had been disgusted by the idea, what would you have done?"

  He tried, with all his might, to imagine what it would be like to be disgusted at the idea of serving Carruthers. Even in the coldness of his fear, he had not felt disgust. "I would have gone back to my House, sir. You couldn't force me to serve you; I'm not in your House."

  Carruthers nodded. "And what if you had been a servant?"

  He felt the dawning of understanding creep over him. "I might not have been able to stop you from taking what you wanted," he said slowly. "Perhaps not even if I knew about the Abuse of Power Act. You would have had so much power over me, as a master, that I would have been afraid to say no. Sir . . ."

  "Yes?" Carruthers, who had been nodding, cocked his head at Meredith.

  "That's why you chose me, wasn't it?" His voice was filled with eagerness now. "Because I'm a servant, but I have the legal rights of a master. You can desire me and ask me to serve you in bed, without worrying that you'll accidentally harm me."

  Carruthers was slow in replying. "In part you're right; but it is more complex than that. I have wanted for many years a certain type of servant: one who felt a personal desire for me that went beyond the mere bonds due between an employer and employee. One who was both a servant and a liegeman, if you can understand what I am saying."

  "I think so, sir," he replied softly. It was an understatement; he understood completely what Carruthers was saying. It was what Meredith had tried to give Pembroke: his allegiance as a liegeman, combined with his service as a servant. But Pembroke had not wanted either his allegiance or his servanthood. Carruthers wanted both.

  Now Carruthers said, "You are a servant, but you have also been trained to be faithful to your liege-master; when we spoke together in the changing room, I sensed that dual nature in you. . . . So you see, I've been seeking much more than bed-service. Indeed, I can now see, thanks to what has happened tonight, that that type of service may not be necessary or appropriate. It may be that you aren't called to serve me in that way—"

  "But sir," he burst out, "I want to serve you – to serve you in any way you desire. You've already given me so much, yet I'm the servant. Shouldn't I be serving you? I . . ."

  His voice trailed away. Carruthers had a small, sober smile on his face – the smile he had had in the changing room, and in the library, and in the moments after Meredith had walked into his room. He said to Meredith, "You really have never read that passage before?"

  He looked blankly at the
Head. "What passage, sir?"

  Carruthers carefully turned the page of the book in Meredith's lap. He put his finger under a line of text and read aloud: "'I don't understand,' said Celadon. 'You wouldn't let me do anything. . . . But I'm supposed to serve you! If you're truly my master—'"

  Meredith found that his breath had disappeared some time during the reading. His heart pounded inside his chest. He felt Carruthers's hand on his cheek as the Head turned his face.

  "It was right there in front of me all along," Carruthers said. "I should have recognized you from the start. Meekness combined with stubbornness that endures any depth of pain for the sake of others. Pure service combined with a determination to teach your master what he needs to know. The servant who took on the duties of mastership in order to care for his people." His fingers trailed over Meredith's cheek. "Remigeus/Celadon/Meredith. Truly, I have been honored beyond measure."

  Meredith remained wordless for a moment. He wanted to deny what Carruthers was saying, for Meredith, of all people, could not be an incarnation of Remigeus. But he could not directly contradict anything that the Head said, so finally he suggested, "And Brun . . . ?"

  "Ah." Carruthers's hand dropped from his cheek. "I'm afraid I'm not Brun. He was a master who served as a servant, and I've always been a master." He paused, blinking, then added with a smile, "Well, almost always. I haven't lived my life as a servant, the way Brun did, and I certainly haven't chosen to remain in the rank of a servant out of a sense of duty to my people. But I've always admired Brun and sought to model myself after him, because he was a master who held desires that could have caused destruction – yet when he was master to Celadon, he chose to mold his dangerous desires into gifts that would allow him to provide Remigeus/Celadon with loving protection."

  "Yes," whispered Meredith.

  Carruthers reached over and closed the book. He set it aside, his gaze returning to the fire, which was almost entirely dead now. "Meredith, certain things I don't know. I don't know whether there will ever be a day when you are able to speak openly of the fact that you are a servant at heart. I don't even know whether you will ever be able to openly serve me in any manner. There's nothing I'd like better than to go to Pembroke tonight and request that you serve as my fag, but we both know that Pembroke would never allow you to do something that would anger Rudd so much. Perhaps in the future, once we are both of age . . . But I can't make any promises. All I can tell you is this: Remigeus/Celadon and Brun found themselves in a situation not entirely unlike ours, and during the time that they could not proclaim their bond to the world, they practiced it behind closed doors."

  "But that would be just as illegal now as it was then." He wanted, more than anything, not to say the words, but he could not help but speak them. Carruthers had already questioned Meredith to make sure that Meredith understood the risk and was willing to undertake it. Now it was occurring to Meredith that he ought to do the same for Carruthers.

  "Yes, because the Act of Celadon and Brun – the act that Remigeus/Celadon himself wrote – was revoked. Oh, I doubt that either you or I are at risk of being arrested; we could easily hide the full nature of your service to me. But even if people assumed that you were simply fagging for me, if it was found that you were serving me without permission from your official liege-master—"

  "I don't want to place you at risk, sir," he said quickly.

  Carruthers smiled. "It's not that great a risk in my case. Even if I was sent down, I'd still be a second-ranked master. And it wouldn't even affect my heirship; masters of any rank are permitted to rise to the rank of High Master in my landstead. So it's not me I'm worried about – it's you. Whether or not you were sent down to servant rank by the Head Master, if it was suspected that you had hidden your service to me from Pembroke, then you might lose your court case."

  He thought about this a while, staring at the dying coals. Or rather, he pretended to think about it, for of course he already knew the answer. He had known the dangers before he came to this room, and his response to the dangers had been decided in the moment that, realizing that Carruthers still wished Meredith to serve him, Meredith had not walked out of the room. He had stayed, knowing what he was risking, and knowing how badly he needed to take that risk.

  "If it was wrong for the High Masters to revoke the Act of Celadon and Brun," he said finally, "then it's wrong for them to forbid me from serving you in private. I'm fighting in court for the right to hold the rank of master, and here . . . here in this room I will execise my right to serve my master in private, as the act allows. If . . . if that's all right with you, sir." He turned his head, belatedly fearing that he had spoken too boldly.

  Carruthers was giving him that smile again – that smile which seemed to penetrate Meredith with its seriousness. "Do you have any idea," said Carruthers, "how much you sound like your previous incarnations?"

  He was saved from having to answer, for in that moment, Carruthers took both Meredith's cheeks within his hands, and raising Meredith's face to his, he kissed his servant deeply.

  o—o—o

  Some time passed before Meredith had a chance to speak again. Any editor of The Tale of Celadon and Brun who was eagerly seeking to censor new episodes in Celadon's life would have been disappointed; Meredith spent that intervening time sliding onto his knees before the grate. Without a word, he rebuilt the fire. Unlike Remigeus/Celadon, he required no instructions from his master in how to do so; he had been watching servants carefully all his life, preparing himself – it now seemed – for this moment.

  Afterwards, to Meredith's great disappointment, Carruthers escorted him to the door. "Much as I would like to have you stay overnight, I can't risk that," the Head explained. "Your absence from your dormitory would certainly be noticed. Besides, I meant what I said before: Your service outside my bed is all I need."

  "I want to serve you in every way, sir," he said, trying to sound level and matter-of-fact, though he still felt nervous at the idea. Daydreams were one thing, but he had not prepared himself sufficiently for that type of service. It touched too closely on how Rudd treated him.

  Carruthers smiled. "And if ever the day comes when you can say that without your voice wavering, I will consider having you serve me that way. Until then . . . Is there anything you wish to ask before you leave?"

  He met Carruthers's eyes. It was so very easy to do so and not worry that Carruthers would consider him defiant, just as it was so very easy to drop his gaze without feeling any more that he was a coward and a failure. "Yes, sir. I was wondering . . . I know that I should continue calling you 'sir' in public, but I was wondering what you want me to call you when we are alone."

  Carruthers looked steadily back at him. "'Sir' will do," he replied. And then, before Meredith had time to wonder whether he had asked the wrong question, Carruthers added, "Or Master Carr. Either is appropriate in informal situations. When we are speaking formally to one another, you will address me simply as 'master.'"

  The same feeling of lightness as before surged through him; he recognized it this time as joy. "Yes, master," he replied. "Thank you."

  Master Carr smiled briefly, then said softly, "Kneel."

  He did so, with his knee half-bent between the stances of a servant and liegeman, feeling the joy begin to penetrate even the lower regions of his torso. Something lay there in the future, he was quite sure; with the help of his master's patience, that service too would be a matter of joy for them both.

  He felt his master's hands on his bowed head, and then – in retrospect, there was no reason why this should have surprised Meredith – Carr spoke the words spoken by every liege-master to his newly pledged liegeman: "You are under my protection. No right duty that you perform as a master will break the bond of service that you offer to me. You are a master in service, and therein lies your strength."

  "It will be my honor to serve you, master . . . and it will give me pleasure to fulfill my duty as a master." As he spoke the words, he knew that they wer
e true. He would never be skilled as a master, any more than Remigeus/Celadon had been, but his very willingness to act as a master would bring good to the world. He had finally found someone who understood that.

  With tears streaming down his face, he took his master's hands and kissed his allegiance to them.

 

  Master and Servant

  HISTORICAL NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Acknowledgments

  The books and websites that I consulted while preparing this series, as well as the museums, historic houses, and communities that I visited, are listed at:

  duskpeterson.com/waterman/#resources

  Any mistakes in this novel should be blamed on me, not my sources.

  I would like to offer my special thanks to Doug, who drove me to locations in Prince George's County, Anne Arundel County, Calvert County, and several counties on the Eastern Shore, not to mention waiting patiently while I took a long walk on Hoopers Island. I also offer my thanks to Spiralred, who provided me with a return trip to Dorchester County, and to David W. Wooddell, who provided me with a return trip to Calvert County. Without their generous chauffeuring, this story would have been much diminished.

  The verse sung by the treble in Chapter Nine of "Unmarked" is from Psalm 4 and is translated in the King James Version of the Bible as: "O ye sons of men, how long will ye turn my glory into shame?" More literally, the Psalmist is asking how long the sons of men will remain hard-hearted. The response sung by the choir is also from Psalm 4 and can be translated as follows (with "dominus" in its original Roman meaning): "Offer the sacrifice of righteousness, and put your trust in the master."

  The character Jesse comes from Sabrina Deane's The Slave Breakers (see links to the series in the next section). How he made it from Ms. Deane's universe into mine, I have no idea, but he has a passage-of-port from Sabrina Deane herself.

  The Bay

  The geography of the Dozen Landsteads is based upon the geography of the Chesapeake Bay region of the State of Maryland, halfway down the Atlantic coast of the United States of America. The history and culture of the Dozen Landsteads is more of a mixed bag: it is partly drawn from the actual history and culture of the Chesapeake region and partly from my own imagination. The Dozen Landsteads is an alternate-universe version of the Chesapeake region: it is what the region might have become if its ranking system, religion, and historical origins had followed the path described in this novel.

  In all other respects, however, I have strived to adhere as closely as possible to the actual facts of our world. I agree with the historical novelist Geoffrey Trease when he said, concerning one of his novels, "A whole chapter of Thunder of Valmy had to be rewritten when I discovered by chance that a certain morning at Versailles in May, 1789, had been grey and drizzly, not sunny as I had first pictured it. What does it matter, a pedantic detail like that? Just as much, or as little, as the workmanship which old-time sculptors and carvers put into figures so far from the ground that no human eye would ever appreciate it."

  One problem I faced in writing this novel is that – due to decisions I had made while writing other series about this world – I had already established that one year in our world equals three years in the Dozen Landsteads' world. Moreover, this particular series required that the Dozen Landsteads have a 1910s culture, while its surrounding neighbors were living in a science fiction version of the 1960s. Rather than try to establish a middle path through the complexities of this dating system, I have taken the easy road and have simply based the geography and environment of the Dozen Landsteads' Bay on that of the Chesapeake Bay in the 1910s. In this alternate universe, the Bay has not yet undergone the conditions that would change its shoreline, waters, and wildlife in the twentieth century – though it is on the point of doing so.

  Because most of the place names in the Chesapeake region aren't widely known, I have retained them in this series of novels, except in a few cases mentioned below. I did this, not with any intention of confusing Maryland with the Dozen Landsteads, but simply because this would make it easier for any interested reader to locate the story locations on maps, both historical and modern. I therefore need to emphasize that, while I have borrowed the geography and certain cultural and historical features of the Bay from our world, the society and people of the Waterman series are entirely my own invention.

  A few notes follow on what is and isn't real about the novel's locations and institutions.

  The Abolitionist

  The First Landstead corresponds in location to three counties in Maryland: St. Mary's, Charles, and Prince George's. The Second Landstead corresponds to Calvert County, while the Third Landstead corresponds to Dorchester County.

  The capital of the Second Landstead is a combination of Solomons and its nearby neighbor, Avondale. In the 1910s, Solomons was an important port island within Calvert County, because of its location at the mouth of the Patuxent River and its excellent harbor. It was mainly inhabited by watermen; the town on the adjacent mainland, Avondale, had higher-class inhabitants. Today, Solomons attracts more pleasure boats than workboats, but the roads in this surprisingly tiny town have not changed, so the walk taken by Carr and Jesse (along Charles Street) can still be taken today.

  Carruthers Cliffs Cove is the unnamed cove between Rocky Point and Cove Point, next to the Chesapeake Bay in Calvert County. (Cove Point, incidentally, does have a lighthouse, dating back to 1828.) Calvert County is named after one of the Calverts – also known as the Barons Baltimore – who played the same sort of role of aristocratic leadership in Colonial Maryland as Carr's family does in the Second Landstead. In the 1910s, a house existed next to this unnamed cove, roughly where I have placed Carr's home. (Its exact location isn't clear from government maps of the time.) I know nothing about that house other than its location; however, Colonial manor houses still existed in this area in the 1910s. Likewise, wharves existed in the 1910s along the Calvert County shore, though not in this particular cove. The area where I have located Carr's home is now part of Calvert Cliffs State Park; you can walk down the park's Red Trail, alongside Gray's Creek, follow a side track onto the hill where I have placed Carr's home, and see the fossil-strewn beach where I have placed the watermen's operations of Carr's House.

  Cliffsdale Manor (Carr's home): Few Calvert County manors have survived, and even fewer are open to the public, so in creating Carr's home, I have drawn upon manors in two adjoining counties. The floor plan, dependency, and some of the mansion's interior decoration are inspired by Riversdale Mansion in Riverdale, an 1801 Georgian/Federal house that became the home of George and Rosie Calvert (yes, the same family of Calverts). The slave quarters are inspired by those in the cellar of Belair Mansion, a 1740s Georgian house in Bowie. The chapel is located where it is in Carr's manor because that is its location in His Lordship's Kindness (also known as Poplar Hill Mansion), a 1784 Georgian/Federal house in Clinton. All of these manors are in Prince George's County, and all are designed in the so-called Maryland five-part plan, in which the main building and flanking wings are connected by "hyphens" (passageways). The exterior red brick and white trim of Carr's manor is characteristic of Maryland Colonial architecture. Finally, the inspiration for the scallop-shell pattern in the formal dining room comes from the drawing room of Sotterley Plantation House, a 1710 mansion in St. Mary's County.

  Steamboats were active on the Chesapeake Bay in the 1910s. One such steamer stopped regularly at the Hoopers Island wharf at Hickory Cove, on a route between Salisbury and Baltimore, though I have altered the steamer's timetable and design. The harbor at Solomons is so deep that it provided anchorage to ocean-bound steamships.

  Balmer is Baltimore ("Balmer" being the local pronunciation in our world for that city).

  Anna's Port is Annapolis.

  The traditional Maryland recipes enjoyed (or not enjoyed) by Carr's family are taken from a variety of sources, including Frederick Tilp's The Chesapeake Bay of Yore, Frederick Philip Stieff's Eat, Drink and Be Merr
y in Maryland (1932), and A Cook's Tour of the Eastern Shore (1948), compiled by the Junior Auxiliary of the Memorial Hospital at Easton, Maryland.

  A landing platform for airships in Calvert Cliffs State Park is purely my own invention, but dirigibles certainly travelled in the Chesapeake region during the 1910s. In 1920, the U.S. Director of Air Service reported to the Secretary of War that airships were being used for coastal defenses of the Chesapeake Bay.

  If ever I die of peacetime nuclear radiation, it's likely to be due to Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant, whose future existence Carr envisions; the plant's 50-mile danger zone is within range of my home (as well as within range of Washington, D.C.). There has been controversy since the 1967 unveiling of plans for the upcoming plant over the plant's likely effect on the Chesapeake environment, which resulted in an important court ruling that the United States government must consider the environmental impact of any nuclear plants it authorizes.

  Rowlett's shantyboat is based upon the reconstructed shantyboat (also called an "ark") at the Waterman's Museum in Rock Hall, Kent County.

  The True Master

  I wrote "The True Master" several years before I had conceived of the Waterman series, which is why it includes no maritime references. However, in retrospect, I've decided that Celadon's castle in the Ninth Landstead is in the current location of the castle-like Baltimore City Detention Center in Baltimore, the largest city in Maryland; prior to the nineteenth century, this prison location was farmland. The castle is located near the Jones Falls stream – close enough to the water that the High Masters of other landsteads can easily travel to the castle from the Bay, but far enough from the capital's harbor that it is less directly affected by fishing activities than most of the other Houses of Government in the Dozen Landsteads.

  Unmarked

  Hoopers Island and Barren Island are actual islands on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, in Dorchester County. Due to shoreline erosion, Barren Island was abandoned by humans around the time that I have it being abandoned in this novel. In the 1910s, Hoopers Island was inhabited by watermen's communities. It still is, so that many of the features I mention in the novel continue to exist – including that terrifyingly thin strip of land between the upper and middle islands. The 1910s roads that Meredith walks down in this novel still exist, and the shortcut still passes through crab-crowded marshland.

  Gunners Cove, Fishing Creek, Hoopersville, and other Hoopers Island locations I mention are real places. I've followed as closely as possible the actual geography and culture of Hoopers Island in the 1910s, though I should note that, in our world, both tongers and dredgers have lived on Hoopers Island.

  The shop at Fishing Creek actually existed, though it did not have a post office, and I do not know its precise location. The shop was owned by a Mr. William H. Simmons; a picture of the shop's exterior occurs on page 83 of Hoopers Island, by Jacqueline Simmons Hedberg (a native of the island, as shown by her maiden name). I have copied nearly verbatim an advertisement for the store, which means I must underline yet again that all of the characters in my story are entirely imaginary. I know nothing about the real Mr. Simmons, other than his occupations. My description of the store's interior is based on Ethel Booze Jones's recollection of the contents of Hoopers Island shops in the first half of the twentieth century, as recounted in her 1998 memoir To Hooper's Island with Love, supplemented by Frederick Tilp's detailed account in The Chesapeake Bay of Yore of Chesapeake estuary stores that he visited in the 1930s.

  Narrows Ferry Bridge was exactly that. I learned of its existence many months after I had decided on the school's name. In modern times, it has been replaced by a steeper bridge.

  Narrows School and the ancient lamphouse at the end of the school's peninsula are my own invention. No boarding schools have ever existed on Hoopers Island; however, a grammar school for youths was established in 1696 in the Western Shore port town of Annapolis. The grammar school merged in 1786 with the recently chartered St. John's College, which later adopted a Great Books program with a number of features from British universities. As it happens, St. John's is my alma mater.

  In the 1910s, Richland Point, the peninsula on which I've placed Narrows School, was shaped as I've described. Most of the peninsula, like much of the rest of Hoopers Island, has since been eaten away by shoreline erosion. In the 1910s, according to maps prepared by the United States government, Richland Point was uninhabited marshland; it remains so today.

  The lower island of Hoopers Island was inhabited in the 1910s, but not, needless to say, by High Masters; nor did the manor of a House of heirship exist in the obscure little village of Golden Hill.

  The lamphouse where Meredith's father works is a composite of two "screw-pile" lighthouses (a characteristic type of lighthouse on the Chesapeake): Hooper Strait Lighthouse, now located at the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum in St. Michaels, and Drum Point Lighthouse, now located at the Calvert Marine Museum in Solomons. I have placed this imaginary lamphouse in the original location of Hooper Strait Lighthouse.

  The watermen

  In 2006, while doing a web search on the address of the Annapolis townhouse I was living in, I happened across the fact that, in the 1910s, our townhouse had belonged to the McNasby family, who owned an oyster packing house in Annapolis that is now the site of the Annapolis Maritime Museum.

  At the time, the news held no significance to me. I'd lived in the State of Maryland since the age of eight, but like many Marylanders, I was unaware of the central role that oysters have played in the history of the state.

  The oystering customs in this story are based on turn-of-the-century customs in the Chesapeake Bay . . . including the custom of warfare. The decades-long gun-battle between the dredgers and the tongers – and between the watermen and the Oyster Navy, and between the maritime inhabitants of different locales – finally ended in the late twentieth century with victory on neither side. Today, a combination of overharvesting, overpopulation, parasites, and pollution has killed off most of the Chesapeake oysters and brought oystering on the bay to a virtual standstill.

  The ranking system I describe in my novel is of course entirely my own invention, though slavery did play an important role in Chesapeake oystering: in the nineteenth century, masters in the Virginia section of the Chesapeake used to assign oyster-related work to their slaves. To this day, many of the shuckers at oyster packing plants are black women. Moreover, turn-of-the-century immigrants were sometimes lured or kidnapped onto oyster boats and held in slavery by captains who were eager for crew (although it should be noted that William Hooper, a turn-of-the-century waterman from Hoopers Island, denied ever having witnessed this custom). In his book The Oyster Wars of Chesapeake Bay, John R. Wennerton describes this custom of abducting immigrants as "one of the most shameful episodes in Maryland maritime history."

  While the religious faiths in this novel are my invention, Christianity – particularly Methodism – has played a central role in watermen's communities.

  The turn-of-the-century methods of oystering that I describe in my novel are still practiced today, though newer, mechanized methods are practiced alongside them. While much diminished, oystering in the Chesapeake has scarcely changed during the past century. Bugeye sailboats have almost entirely disappeared from the bay, and log canoes are no longer used as workboats, but a handful of skipjacks – sailboats developed for use by Chesapeake dredgers – remain on the water, the last remaining commercial fleet of sailboats in the United States. Oystermen and other commercial fishermen on the Chesapeake are still called watermen, a fifteenth-century word.

  I've based the watermen's dialect in this novel on modern-day watermen's dialect. Each region of the Chesapeake has had its own version of that dialect, but current versions of those dialects share certain characteristics, such as watermen's custom of calling both females and males "honey." I was unable to locate any turn-of-the-century accounts of watermen's speech, but mid-twentieth-century written transcriptions of watermen w
ho had been "following the water" since the turn of the century show these men speaking in the same manner as many of today's watermen.

  Football

  I created the rules of the "footer" game in this novel by blending my own imaginary form of football with the military exercises that took place in turn-of-the-century British public schools. During the 1910s, the "Rugby Code" and "Association" (soccer) had become the most popular forms of public-school football, but some schools still clung to their own forms of footer for home matches, as recounted during a slightly earlier period by John Corbin in his 1898 book, School Boy Life in England:

  The present Winchester game . . . is the most peculiar of all the games played at the public schools. The field is eighty yards long; but in order to make room for four games in "Meads," it is only twenty-five yards wide. At first, to prevent the ball from going out of bounds a line of fags had to stand shivering beside the field. The goal was a fag who stood straddle at the end of the field; and the highest single score was made by kicking the ball between goal's legs. In 1850 canvas was put up at the sides of the fields instead of fags. Tradition says, however, that there were holes cut through the canvas at equal intervals in order that the fags might watch the ball and chase it when it went over the canvas. When they were slow in getting the ball back they had to stick their heads through the holes and be punished for it.

  As can be seen from this passage, the rules of football were intimately bound up with the rules of hierarchy within the school. Oddly enough, though, public-school athletics was a system that often clashed with the class system outside of school. As Arnold Lunn put it in his 1913 autobiographical novel, The Harrovians, "The boy aristocracy is more rational in so far as it is based not on birth but on talent – athletic talent." I tried to give a sense of this tension through Pembroke's unusual position as a second-ranked Captain.

  Narrows School

  The layout of the grounds of Narrows School (the Circle) is inspired by that of Lawrenceville School in New Jersey, which adopted the House system in the 1880s. The House system was invented by British public schools; in the 1910s, Lawrenceville was considered to be the most prominent example of an American school which used that system. The school's landscape was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, who later designed Central Park in New York City. The "jiggers" mentioned in "Unmarked" are a reference to a favorite Lawrenceville dessert, although the actual recipe given here is of a favorite Hoopers Island dessert.

  Lawrenceville was immortalized in a series of novels between 1908 and 1922 by Owen Johnson, who had attended the school in the 1890s; according to literary historians, the novels were based on his school experiences. The novels were turned into an MGM film in 1950 (The Happy Years) and into a 1986 series shown on PBS (The Lawrenceville Stories); both adaptations were filmed on location at Lawrenceville School.

  Johnson's stories were very similar in tone to British school stories of the time. Indeed, the British slang that the schoolboys speak in Master and Servant ("ripping," "chap," etc.) is taken from the Lawrenceville stories. It's an interesting example of how deeply British customs have embedded themselves into certain American institutions. Yet there is also a uniquely American flavor to the Lawrenceville stories; I have similarly tried to blend British and American traditions at Narrows School.

  I have also drawn inspiration from Selborne School in Dorset, England, as depicted in Alec Waugh's 1917 novel The Loom of Youth; I will have more to say about that in the historical note to the next volume of Waterman. What I can say here is that certain features of turn-of-the-century British public schools which are alien to most modern Americans are quite familiar to me. I experienced them in college.

  Although I was sadly oblivious as a student to my college's maritime setting (St. John's is located alongside a broad creek, just blocks from Annapolis's city dock), I was keenly aware of my academic surroundings: hours spent sitting in front of the great Victorian hearth in my dorm building, translating Aristotle out of Ancient Greek; students bowing and curtseying to the college president at the convocation ceremony (which ended each year with the president declaring, "Convocatum est!"); holding lengthy discussions with my roommate over whether wearing sneakers to seminar was a heinous violation of the decades-old dress code; addressing my boyfriend by title and last name in the classroom (because the students addressed each other that way in the classroom), and then addressing him by title and last name at a rock party (because the students did that as well); chatting with classmates over whether the latest Friday-night lecturer would put us to sleep, a chatting that ended with the swiftness of a guillotine when the speaker walked onto the stage and we all rose immediately to our feet in silent welcome; dressing up in cap and gown to defend my Senior Essay in an oral exam before three tutors – i.e., instructors – and a listening audience; and enduring the even more gruelling don rag, in which my tutors discussed my progress during the previous semester. ("We're wondering whether you'd be happier at another college" is the way one of my tutors put it at the end of my junior year. I dealt with that crisis by bursting into tears.)

  As you can tell from all this, formality, within the context of a centuries-old academic setting, played a central role in my college experiences. In the case of St. John's, the formality was spurred by principles of democracy: we students were called by our last names so that we could be granted the same courtesy as our instructors, who were considered to be fellow students of the Great Books we all read. Therefore, the underlying philosophy of our formality was different from that of Narrows School, yet certain parallels remain.

  It was precisely because my college was so wonderfully obsessed with protocol that our student pranks had an edge to them which is lost at schools where informality is the everyday rule. There's nothing like being pulled out of a formal seminar in order to watch the senior-year pranksters parody the seminar tutors by naming them in accordance with Chaucerian characters. That happened during my sophomore year, and along the way we were escorted past the underground, locked cells where college furniture was kept. Those cells, alas, played no further role in the prank; nor, to my knowledge, did the students hold their annual prank against visiting lecturer Mortimer Adler by pointing rifles at him . . . though they had been known in the past to turn off the lights when his lecture went on too long.

  o—o—o

  As for the other details of life at Narrows School, I have adhered closely, but not slavishly, to 1910s customs in British public schools. My biggest departure is from the manner in which students rose academically: in the 1910s, a student entered a higher form when he was judged to be qualified to do the work, not when he reached an arbitrary age.

  The fagging system was certainly an integral part of public-school life, and if accounts from former students are to be trusted, bed-service was sometimes part of the bargain. However, in our world, the relationship between school hierarchy and outside hierarchy was often very much at odds. As one commentator has pointed out, many an English lord started his school career by fagging to a middle-class boy. The hierarchical system in this novel is therefore more logical than the hierarchical system in British public schools, though no less prone to stress.

  Same-sex attraction

  Like the political, religious, and ranking aspects of this story, the social structure in which same-sex attraction occurs in the non-school portions of this novel is my own invention. I have no information whatsoever on any same-sex attraction that occurred in turn-of-the-century Maryland; certainly no social structure existed to support it.

  As far as the school portions of the novel are concerned, I'm on more solid ground. Close friendship, romantic friendship, romance, and homosexual activities – with the lines between these four states often well-nigh nonexistent – frequently occur in turn-of-the-century literature about British public schools. Even writers of boarding-school stories who had no interest in the topic of same-sex attraction often felt obliged to mention the subject in passing. Same-sex attraction
is therefore "canon" in historical novels about turn-of-the-century boarding schools.

  The particular version that attraction takes in my own story – an attraction based on a difference in rank – is imaginary, though it parallels closely the classic literary turn-of-the-century boarding school romance, which usually occurred between a younger student and an older student who held the privilege of giving orders to the younger student (such as a fag and his "fag-master"). Writers of that time tended to underestimate the ethical problems that can arise in power-based relationships. I've tried to touch on some of those problems without forcing my characters to hold twenty-first-century perspectives.

  Final thoughts

  While I have not tried to copy exactly any of the settings I mention above, I have used these visits and studies and memories to flavor my historical-fantasy rendering of a combined Chesapeake/British setting. As anyone who has eaten Chesapeake oyster stew knows, seasoning is everything.

  o—o—o

  o—o—o

  o—o—o

  Appendix

  THE FOREIGN VISITOR AT HOME

  An excerpt from Intake Counselor, by Sabrina Deane

  [Dusk Peterson's note: The character Jesse was borrowed and reshaped from Sabrina Deane's series The Slave Breakers. The following excerpt from the sequel to that series, Intake Counselor, gives a sense of what Jesse is like in his original setting.]

  "Fuck you, Hanna. I put my ass on the front lines—"

  "Oh, you love it, don't give me that," said Hanna, now seated at Jesse and Quen's little kitchen table as Jesse dumped spoonfuls of something fantastic-smelling from a sizzling pot onto the plate in front of her. "You'd go in guns blazing every single time, if you could, and to hell with the fallout, to hell with the kids in the crossfire—"

  "Hell is what I'm trying to bust them out of," said Jesse.

  "You think I don't know that?"

  "I know you know it, so I don't know why you've got to clutch your pearls over a little gun-brandishing— it's not like we shot anyone—"

  "Oh, right, you didn't actually kill the kid you were rescuing, or splatter her with anyone's blood, that's just great then, carry on—"

  "This is delicious, Jess," said Quen.

  "Thanks. Hanna, you're such a fucking priss," said Jesse, as Hanna took a bite; the food was delicious, spicy and flavorful and a bit creamy, with vegetables and nuts and raisins and enough onions that Hanna was surprised Jesse's eyes weren't still streaming. "You sit there in your cute little office with your cute little file folders and bitch me out for traumatizing a kid who's probably been raped every day for the last three years by letting her delicate little eyes rest on a nasty dangerous gun—"

  "You're lucky you're such a good cook," said Hanna. "Otherwise I'd be tempted to insert a nasty dangerous gun into your delicate little earhole and—"

  "—and then you might actually have to put on some real shoes and run the borders your own damn self and see how easy it is to answer questions nobody's actually asked while you're praying the checkpoint guard is still the one you bribed last time—"

  "Was he?"

  "Yeah."

  "Which checkpoint?"

  "North of Kindlewood."

  "Anything after that that might have traumatized my client?"

  "No."

  "This really is delicious," said Hanna.

  Jesse beamed. "Isn't it?"

  "No false modesty about you, Jess," said Quen, eating steadily.

  "Unlike you," said Jesse, "so I'm going to have to tell Hanna myself that you got—"

  "Oh, shut up."

  "—top marks in his entire class on his written exams," said Jesse, over Quen's protest. "Next thing is he gets to actually go on the wards and see real patients and practice on them."

  "And try not to kill anyone," said Quen. "No, the written exams are the easy part—"

  "—if you're a fucking genius."

  Quen blushed. "Stop. I just study, is all. Half my classmates don't bother. I work hard."

  "I know," said Jesse. "I'm a med school widow. It's no wonder I turn to a life of crime. And criminally good cookery. More, Hanna?"

  o—o—o

  Sabrina Deane's stories are available at:

  The Slave Breakers: official index.

  The Slave Breakers: fan index (scroll down to "slave"), with links to additional stories not listed in the official index.

  The Slave Breakers: donation page. Scroll down for the donation button to the "Keep [Sabrina Deane] Solvent So She Doesn't Have To Sell Her Laptop (Because Then, No More Fic, Which Is Sad) Fund."

  o—o—o

  o—o—o

  o—o—o

  === More Waterman fiction ==

  Excerpt from the next story in the series

  THE PLAYING FIELD

  Abandoned by his first liege-master, sent away by his second liege-master, Meredith could at least comfort himself with the knowledge that he still owed duties to his school masters.

  He had a good deal of flexibility in determining those duties in this, his final term of school. Indeed, the Seventh Form was nearly empty by now: the vast majority of students had taken and passed their university exams and were exempted from further education until university began for them in Autumn Waning.

  A few Seventh Formers, either diligent or desperate, continued their studies at Narrows School: young masters who wished to spend the period before university studies in a scholastically fruitful manner, or young masters who had failed the examinations for university entrance in the winter holidays and the spring holidays and were making a final attempt in the summer holidays.

  Meredith had received his certificate of entrance to university over the spring holidays; so had Carr. By silent assent, both had returned to Narrows School the following term, not out of scholastic aspirations, but simply to put off the time when they must face the trial of living in separate colleges within Second University.

  Now that was no longer a motive for Meredith to stay at Narrows. But as long as he was here, he must make himself useful in some manner. Having finished combing the school library for its scant number of books on Bay history, he cast his mind around for another occupation . . .

  . . . and remembered Carr's question: "Has the shoreline of Hoopers Island eroded more in recent years than in the past?"

  It seemed an interesting enough question to seek an answer to. He did not let himself think about the fact that, in seeking the answer, he was continuing to do service for the Head.

  He first researched the answer in an unconventional manner: he sought out Sol.

  He had continued to meet Sol, at irregular intervals, at the school pond. He suspected that these meetings were not by chance, but to his relief, Sol had not asked him any further questions about his troubles. Instead, he and Sol would spend long hours behind the duck-blind, waiting for waterfowl to arrive, while Sol taught him how to hunt; or they would sit by the pond, while Sol taught him how to fish.

  He knew that Sol regarded him as a servant because his parents had been born servants. But unlike the lads at school, Sol had never treated Meredith's servant traits as a reason for scorn. Sol's matter-of-fact acceptance of Meredith's servitude was a comfort to Meredith, even if he couldn't burden Sol with the full tale of how he had come to embrace this part of himself.

  Besides, Sol was not the sort of man who spoke easily of inner feelings. His method of communication was on a deeper level. And so they would sit side by side, Sol reaching over occasionally to adjust Meredith's grip on a gun or a fishing rod, and Meredith would feel the same sort of peace he had always felt in the presence of his father.

  Such very different men: one man believed him to be a servant, the other believed him to be a master, neither of them fully grasping the whole of him, but both appreciating what they saw in him. And both as solid and reliable as the Bay itself.

  Sol had no immediate answers for Meredith about the shoreline, though.

  "Never talked
about that with my daddy," he said. "And he's not here no more to ask. Drowned in the storm of '54. . . . Let me ask around. Some of the older watermen might remember. Or maybe their wives."

  "Master Pembroke said that you're getting married," Meredith replied, somewhat shyly.

  Sol nodded without taking his eye off the cane fly rod.

  "I guess you'll be busy from now on," Meredith added, bleakly contemplating the day when he would arrive at the pond to find it empty.

  Sol glanced at him, then away. "Not too busy."

  That was all, but Meredith knew that it was a promise – a pledge as great as that of a liege-master.

  He had felt ashamed of himself for so many years for being a servant. Now, freed from that shame by Carr, he was beginning to seek models for his service. Sol, he thought, was as fine a model as anyone could have for how to be a servant. Indeed, Sol's behavior was beginning to stir questions in Meredith's mind – questions that not even Carr had raised, with all his talk of servants and masters being oysters and shadfish, whose qualities could not be compared.

  Meredith, with an analytical mind that refused to flinch from any unanswered question, compared Sol to the masters he knew . . . and found no master that he admired more.

  Admired as much in different ways, yes. Sol could not replace Carr in Meredith's life . . . but neither could Carr replace Sol. They were different men, both great in their own manner and in their own stations of life. Yet Carr would have said that servants, as a whole, were at a lower level than masters, as a whole.

  Breaking into Meredith's thoughts, Sol said, "You asked Master Pembroke about this?"

  "He isn't interested in such things," Meredith replied in a moment of candor.

  Sol flicked a glance at him out of the corner of his eyes. "Not a matter of interest. It's a matter of knowing. He growed up with a daddy and two brothers who talked about the Bay from rising to bedtime. He'd have heard things."

  Meredith began to reply, then paused in his thoughts. It had increasingly angered him, in the months following Carr's pledge of protection, that when Meredith and Pembroke had been young boys, Pembroke had never seemed to want to talk about Meredith's interests, only his own.

  It had not occurred to Meredith to wonder whether Pembroke had anyone to talk to about his interests, other than the boy who was destined to be his liegeman. Living in a waterman's household, on an island filled with watermen, Pembroke could not have even held much hope that Meredith, a waterman's son, would show any interest in Pembroke's great passion for footer.

  Meredith was suddenly very glad that his instinctive desire to serve Pembroke had drawn him to learn the game of footer for Pembroke's sake. He said to Sol, "Maybe I'll mention my research to Master Pembroke."

  Sol nodded. He said nothing more. He wasn't a man to press a point, once it was made.

  o—o—o

  More Waterman stories are available at:

  duskpeterson.com/waterman

  To receive notice of book publications and free online fiction, subscribe to Dusk Peterson's e-mail list or blog feed:

  duskpeterson.com/lists.htm

  o—o—o

  o—o—o

  o—o—o

  === Back matter ===

  CREDITS

  Master and Servant editorial assistants: Yingtai and Jo/e Noakes.

  Master and Servant technical consultant: Emily.

  Cover design and interior design: Dusk Peterson.

  Cover art (color): Modified detail from Compass (2011), by Theresa Thompson (flickr.com/photos/theresasthompson/7163227255). License: Creative Commons Attribution (creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0).

  Cover art (black & white): Details from illustrations by T. M. R. Whitwell for P. G. Wodehouse's Mike: A Public School Story (1909). Reproductions courtesy of Project Gutenberg. Two young men stare into the distance, separated east-west by a compass.

  The excerpt from Intake Counselor appears with permission of Sabrina Deane.

  PUBLICATION HISTORY

  The Abolitionist: January 2009 to June 2013 (composition) and June 2013 (e-book edition).

  The True Master: February 2002 (composition, arising from an earlier story idea), April 2002 (list edition), May 2002 (web edition), September 2010 (e-book edition, as part of Waterman: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus of historical fantasy and retrofuture science fiction), and July 2013 (individual e-book edition).

  Unmarked: January 2008 to February 2010 (composition, arising from an earlier story idea), September to November 2010 (web edition), September 2010 (e-book edition, as part of Waterman: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus of historical fantasy and retrofuture science fiction), and July 2013 (individual e-book edition).

  Master and Servant: August 2013 (e-book edition).

  AUTHOR'S WEBSITE, BLOG, E-MAIL LIST, AND CONTACT INFORMATION

  For Dusk Peterson's e-books, online fiction and nonfiction, and series resources, please visit:

  duskpeterson.com

  For notices of new fiction, please subscribe to the updates e-mail list or blog feed:

  duskpeterson.com/lists.htm

  Author's contact information:

  duskpeterson.com/#contact

  TURN-OF-THE-CENTURY TOUGHS E-BOOKS

  A cycle of historical fantasy series by Dusk Peterson about disreputable men on the margins of society, and the men and women who love them. The novels are set in an imaginary version of Maryland and other Mid-Atlantic states between the 1880s and the 1910s. One of the series in the cycle, Waterman, combines elements of the 1910s with retrofuturistic imagery from the 1960s.

  Available at major e-bookstores and at:

  duskpeterson.com

  The Eternal Dungeon. In a cool, dark cavern, guarded by men and by oaths, lies a dungeon in which prisoners fearfully await the inevitable. The inevitable will be replaced by the unexpected. ¶ The Eternal Dungeon is a historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

  Life Prison. They are imprisoned until death, and their lives cannot get worse . . . or so they think. But when an unlikely alliance forms against their captors, the reformers risk losing what little comforts they possess. ¶ Life Prison is a historical fantasy series about male desire and determination in Victorian prisons.

  Commando. The nautical nation is backed by the military might of an empire. The mountainous republic is populated by farmers and shopkeepers, and it has no standing army. The nautical nation is about to make the mistake of attacking the mountainous republic. ¶ Commando is a historical fantasy series that imagines what the South African Boer War could have been like if it had been fought on American soil.

  Michael's House. In a world where temples are dying and sacred theaters have been replaced by brothels, what will happen when a hard-headed businessman joins forces with an idealist? ¶ Michael's House is a historical fantasy series set in a Progressive Era slum.

  Waterman. How can a youth from a bay island boarding school survive when he is sent to a futuristic prison? ¶ Waterman is a historical fantasy series and retrofuture series inspired by the Chesapeake Bay oyster wars, boarding school rivalries in the 1910s, and 1960s visions of things to come.

  OTHER E-BOOKS BY DUSK PETERSON

  Available at major e-bookstores and at:

  duskpeterson.com

  The Three Lands. He vowed himself to his god. Now the god is growing impatient . . . ¶ The Three Lands is a fantasy series on friendship, romance, and betrayal in times of war and peace.

  Sweet Suffering. A soldier courts a young woman on the eve of battle. An aircar chauffeur tests the boundaries of his enslavement. A despairing captive in a Renaissance prison must choose whether to obey the deadly command of a lord. . . . ¶ Sweet Suffering is a cycle of fantasy, historical fantasy, and science fiction series on friendship, heterosexual romance, gay love, and faithful service amidst hardship and transformation.