Chapter 1
It was a full week before they tested Joran again. He’d been quiet and obedient,
hadn’t lost it after that first night. He spent each night in Lukas’s bed, where
they lay together silently, Lukas’s hand on his belly or stroking his hair.
He found it easier to enter the bed each night, easier to respond to Lukas’s
or Rurik’s voices without panicking or falling apart.
It couldn’t last, of course. They couldn’t afford to wait long. Joran was pulling
on his pajamas when Rurik came up and said, "No need for that, gosse, you’re
with me tonight. Strip and come to bed."
It was a shock Joran wasn’t prepared for, and before he could think a response
fell out. "Oh sir, no."
The other three looked up in astonishment. He squirmed under their stares,
tried to explain. "I mean, I don’t think— if you could just—"
Lukas exchanged an unreadable look with Rurik, then crossed the room in a single
stride. "Hold still," he said, pulled back his hand, and slapped Joran hard
across the face. Joran stood perfectly motionless, the red handprint outlined
on his pale cheek. Behind his glasses, Lukas’s deep blue eyes were tranquil.
"Let’s try that answer again, shall we?" he asked.
"I only meant—" Joran stammered, "I only meant that Rurik isn’t very gentle,
and I’m afraid he’s going to rip me apart inside if he—"
"The proper response to Rurik’s command is what, Joran?"
"Is ‘yes, sir.’"
"Correct."
"But sir, what if—"
"Joran," very softly, "do you want to go down on the floor again?"
Joran shivered in spite of himself. "No, sir, I don’t."
Lukas looked at Rurik. "Tell him again."
Rurik shrugged and pushed his dark hair behind his ears. "Strip off and get
into bed with me."
"Yes, sir." Joran tried to keep his mind level. He pulled his clothes off,
clutching at them before dropping them to the floor. He slid into the bed with
Rurik, schooled his features into a mask of control, and tried to think of something
that might mitigate what he’d said. "What do you want me to do, sir?" he asked
Rurik.
"I want you to turn onto your stomach," said Rurik pleasantly, "spread your
legs, and pull your knees up."
Joran obeyed, trying not to flash on the last time Rurik had taken him. He
knew it had been ordered, knew intellectually that Rurik took little joy in
causing pain, but the touch of fingers on his hips made him shake. "Hold still,
gosse," remarked Rurik. "I’ll never get it in if you keep moving like that."
Lukas coughed. Rurik waved an irritable hand.
Longing for this to be over, Joran did his best to still his tremors. Rurik
applied cream to his entrance; he was grateful this wasn’t going to be as painful
as the last rape, but the pressure of Rurik’s fingers so unnerved him that his
eyes nearly dissolved into tears. Please, sir, I’m trying, please don’t be
angry. Rurik worked a finger inside, tried to insert another one. He let
out a grunt. "Damn. This isn’t going to work."
Joran heard footsteps and turned his head. His body went rigid when he saw
his former slave standing above him. Oh, no, please don’t, not both of you,
not both at once, I can’t do this, not yet, please. "Let up, Rurik," Lukas
said. Joran felt the fingers leave him. Tension fairly hissed in the air, and
he knew punishment was imminent, so he hid his face in the pillow and braced
himself to suffer.
The knowledge didn’t lessen his dread. He shook as Lukas knelt beside the bed
and grasped his hair, pulling his head up and forcing him to look in his eyes.
"Joran," he said, "do you trust me?"
Joran sucked in a breath and held it. He knew he should say yes, sir
at once, but Lukas’s face was so grave, and the rote answer didn’t seem good
enough. "I— don’t know, sir."
He stiffened, anticipating another blow, but Lukas just said, "Think about
it." He waited, looking at Joran expectantly through the sandy brown bangs that
hung over his glasses.
Joran did. It was a ludicrous position for serious thought: his ass naked in
the air, Rurik’s fingers, now withdrawn, resting on his lower back. He closed
his eyes and remembered the last time: the tearing, the screaming, the horrifying
sense of abandonment as Lukas had forced his way into him. God, no, how could
he ever trust him again?
A kinder memory came to him on its heels: the memory of Lukas’s hand stroking
his head, Lukas’s arm around him, Lukas’s quiet voice in his ear as he spoke
of the reasons for what they’d done – what they had to do if Aerne’s wrath were
not to fall upon them all. Memory of the sudden realization of Lukas’s fear,
no less real than Joran’s own. He opened his eyes. "Yes, sir," he whispered.
Lukas nodded approval and leaned forward. "We want to try something, Joran,
but we need your cooperation. You need to help us for this to work."
Joran gripped the bedsheets. "What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to relax. That’s all. Just stay relaxed and accept what Rurik does.
Can you do that?"
He felt a sudden, unreasoning panic sweep through him. He had thought that
what had been done to him until now – the demands for obedience, the beatings,
the rapes – was the worst he could endure. But this, this went beyond obedience,
this threatened to destroy the last shred of his soul. Lukas was asking Joran
to assist in his own rape. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t
I can’t …
"No," said Lukas, seeming to sense Joran’s panic. "It will be different if
you help. I promise you."
Joran swallowed hard. "What happens if I don’t?"
Lukas glanced past him to Rurik. "Not without his help," the young man said.
"I can’t do it the way we planned if he resists."
Lukas looked back at Joran. "If you don’t, we’ll stop. You can go back to bed."
Joran looked at Lukas in disbelief. Lukas raised his eyebrows. "Is that a problem,
gosse?"
"You just— when I—" Joran struggled for words. "When I said no, you hit me."
He flinched at Lukas’s movement, but the man just lifted a hand and brushed
Joran’s hair back.
"I didn’t hit you because you didn’t want to have sex," said Lukas, his voice
gentler now. "I hit you because you said ‘no’ to an order from a superior. You
don’t argue when an order is given; you obey, no matter what it is. Now you’ve
obeyed, and we’re giving you the choice."
Joran looked down at the bed. He felt again the touch of Lukas’s hands in his
memory. He closed his eyes and whispered, "Will you hold my hand?"
"If you want me to." Lukas slipped his hand into Joran’s and waited. Joran
took a deep breath. He could still feel Rurik’s body behind him, and he tried
to erase it from his thoughts, to forget what lay ahead. To relax, to lie in
Lukas’s bed, to feel the older man’s fingers touch his hair . . .
He felt Rurik at his entrance once more, and he tensed, then tensed further
as he realized he had disobeyed again and would pay for it. But nothing happened
except that Lukas said, "We won’t do it without your help."
And so he submerged himself in Lukas’s voice, let his mind dwell on the hand
touching his, let himself be drowned in the memories of their nights together.
And a wonder occurred: Rurik slid into him, slow and deep, as slick as a well-oiled
piston, and as he reached Joran’s depths, the world exploded.
Dimly he knew he had felt this before, long ago, in his other life. "Oh, fuck,"
he moaned into the sheets. "Oh, fuck."
Rurik chuckled behind him, but this time there was no malice to his laugh.
Joran could feel Lukas’s free hand on his forehead, wiping away the sweat-plastered
hair there. Joran gave a heavy sigh and let himself fall deeper into the sensations.
Rurik took him in long, slow strokes that soon had Joran moaning at every breath.
He hadn’t felt this before, not down here, not in months of acting as a bed-partner
to the three men. He didn’t know what had changed, why he was allowed this,
why he could feel this. He didn’t know Rurik could make anyone feel so
good. "God," he groaned, "oh, God, yes, there, oh please, please, please … "
He arched his back as he felt Rurik’s final thrust into him, heard the forced
exhalation of orgasm. He began licking Lukas’s hand with frantic desire, but
even this brought no retribution. Instead, as his trembling reached its peak,
he felt Rurik’s hand close around his shaft. He couldn’t hold back; he thrust
into the hand, once, twice, and came, shuddering under the bigger man and smothering
his cries against Lukas’s hand.
Joran couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe they’d let him do that. He was
drained, yet more alive than he’d felt in so long. He regained his breath and
looked up cautiously. Rurik was wiping his hands off, smiling at him. "What
do you say, gosse?" he asked.
"Thank you, sir," he said without thinking, then caught himself and said it
again, meaning it. "Thank you, sir."
Rurik looked over at Lukas, who’d withdrawn his hand from Joran’s. "He’s all
right, there’s no blood."
"Good," Lukas nodded. "Joran? Tell me how you feel. Is there any pain?"
"No, sir, I’m all right," said Joran. "I feel … good."
"Excellent." Lukas stood, stretching. "Let’s get to sleep early for once, all
right?"
Joran rose, still lightheaded. He looked around the room. "Where, sir?" He
felt like a fool for asking, but he honestly didn’t know.
Lukas looked toward Rurik, who shook his head. "Better not, if you don’t want
him bloody in the morning."
"Egon?" Lukas offered.
"I don’t like to share my bed," said Egon.
The lights went out. Lukas sighed. "You may sleep alone tonight, Joran."
"Thank you, sir." Joran got dressed in the dark, slid between the sheets of
his cot. He thought he’d be thankful for a bed to himself, but he tossed from
side to side, unable to sleep. He missed the comforting warmth of Lukas at his
back, the reassurance of Lukas’s hand on his chest.
His feet still tingled with the aftereffects of orgasm, and he carefully reached
down to touch himself, stroking himself back to erection. He played the scene
again in his mind, only this time it was Lukas behind him, whose fingers opened
him gently and whose cock slid into him so smoothly, causing explosions in his
brain as he pushed into his hand and came again, biting his lips to hush himself
…
He awoke with a stinging pain in his face; unsure where he was or what was
happening, he struck out. He heard a curse, and something hit him again. The
shock of the pain brought him fully awake, and he stilled his reflexes before
he hit anyone else. Hands grabbed him and held him down; he didn’t resist. "What
the hell is wrong, gosse?" asked a severe voice. Lukas’s voice.
Joran swallowed and tried to speak. His breathing was rapid. "Sir, I don’t
know—" his throat felt raw. "I don’t— what happened, sir?"
"You were screaming," said Rurik, holding his legs down. "You woke all of us."
He started to say something else, broke off as the door swung open and the lights
came on. All four cringed at the sudden brightness.
Halvar stood in the doorway, neat as always in nightclothes and dressing gown.
He raised his eyebrows. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"
Rurik, Egon, and Lukas came to their feet, Joran a second later. The other
two looked at Lukas, and he stepped forward. "I’m sorry you were disturbed,
sir. Apparently Joran had a nightmare."
Halvar was dispassionate as he turned his attention to Joran. "Is that correct,
Joran?"
Joran swallowed as he forced himself to meet Halvar’s eyes. He didn’t want
to tell him what he’d seen in his dreams, the terrifying images, the searing
pain the creatures inflicted … "Yes, sir. I apologize for waking you."
"Is this a common occurrance?" Halvar was unmoved.
"I— sometimes, sir. I’ve had the dreams for years. I’m very sorry."
Halvar’s lips thinned; he swept the room with his gaze. "Please endeavor to
ensure this does not happen again."
"Yes, sir," muttered all four as Halvar departed. The lights shut off after
a moment. Rurik fell into bed with a whuff. "God, gosse. Do you enjoy trouble
so much you have to bring it on the rest of us as well?"
Joran curled up, wondering if he was going to be beaten again. "I’m very sorry.
I didn’t mean to."
"Shut up and go back to sleep," Rurik mumbled into his pillow. "The Chairman
wants me early tomorrow. Today. Whatever."
"Tomorrow," muttered Egon. "It’s eleven."
No one said anything else, and Joran’s heart slowed. He didn’t want to go back
to sleep. Once the dreams started, it took a long time for them to go away.
And this one felt worse. There was something different, something that sharpened
the horror and anguish he felt. He didn’t remember feeling this panicked by
the dreams before, but at least he wasn’t alone in the big bed upstairs. He
felt comforted by the presence of the other three in the room, even though he
knew they’d have him down on his hands and knees crying out under their belts
if he bothered them again. He pressed his fist against his mouth, hoping it
would be enough to stifle any more outcries.
c
He made it through the rest of that night and the next without disturbing anyone
else. The dreams didn’t leave him but he stuffed a corner of his pillow into
his mouth before he fell asleep in hopes of muffling himself. He stumbled through
the day, doing whatever he was assigned, glad it was scutwork that didn’t require
much thought. Rurik whipped him when he absentmindedly left a bucket in the
hallway, but it didn’t last too long and Joran was surprised at how little it
bothered him.
The third night, the dreams came again – the nightmare creatures, ripping at
him, tearing out his insides. Only now he could see the differences; the serpent
had Rurik’s sensuous smile, the falcon-dog had Egon’s pale eyes and hair, the
zombie spoke in Lukas’s voice. He fought them, tried to stab them with a firebrand,
but it turned to a carrot in his hand and they were on him. He kicked and screamed
for help. "Please, don’t let them, don’t oh God get them off me, get them off
me please!"
"Joran, if you don’t wake up this instant I am going to make you fucking well
regret it!"
Joran’s eyes snapped open. There was a hand in his hair, a body across his
chest and another across his legs, holding him down. "Is Halvar coming?" Lukas
asked quietly but urgently.
"I don’t think so," came Egon’s low rumble by the door. "I think we caught
him in time."
Joran was trembling from the aftereffects of the dream. Lukas’s voice brought
it back into his mind in vivid color, and he struggled without meaning to. "Shut
it down," Rurik growled in his ear. "You’re damn lucky we got to you before
Halvar did. He’d have you on the floor before you woke up."
Oh fuck, I’m not getting out of this. They’ll never let me get away with
it again. "I’m sorry," he said, knowing it wouldn’t do any good, that they
wouldn’t even hear him. "I’ll hold still. I’m sorry."
"Sorry," Rurik snorted. "You’re always fucking sorry, gosse." But he let Joran
go and allowed him to sit up. There was a creak as Lukas sat on the cot near
Joran’s feet.
"This can’t go on, Joran," said Lukas.
Joran nodded, even though Lukas couldn’t see. "I know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean
to wake everyone; I don’t even know I’m screaming until you wake me up." He
swallowed. "Are you going to beat me?"
"I don’t know," said Lukas, tired. "Would it help?"
"Couldn’t hurt," muttered Rurik.
"I don’t know, sir." Joran drew his legs to his chest.
"Maybe we should gag him," suggested Egon.
"God, that’s the best idea I’ve heard in a week," said Rurik.
Lukas was quiet. Joran felt a hand stroke his foot, then withdraw. "All right.
Let’s try that for now."
Rurik left Joran’s cot; Joran could hear banging in the darkness, Rurik cursing
as he kicked a piece of furniture. He came back. "All I could find," he said.
"Open up, gosse."
Joran opened his mouth; Rurik pushed a heavy rolled-up sock into it. He tied
a dressing gown sash around Joran’s head to keep it in. "Sleep well. Try not
to wake up again, okay?"
The gag didn’t keep the dreams from coming, but at least Joran didn’t wake
anyone else. He untied the sash in the morning and stumbled heavily to the bathroom.
The sock had dried his mouth, and he rinsed it a few times to get the taste
out. He looked blearily into the mirror. His eyelids drooped low and puffy,
and the circles under his dark eyes made him look bruised. His black hair hung
ragged down his neck. He wet it and slicked it down, trying to make it look
neat.
Breakfast was no longer the ordeal it had been. Ingelev didn’t torment him
anymore; after her apology, she had stayed far away from him. He still got smiles
from Tekla, which made him happy. He would sit with his three roommates and
eat his fill quietly, passing food when he was asked. Today, though, he didn’t
feel much like eating.
As the slaves left the table, and Ingelev and Tekla cleared, Joran caught Halvar
before he left the kitchen. "Sir, may I make a request?" Joran’s fingers knotted
together behind his back.
"Make it fast." The older man was brusque, clearly in a hurry.
"Yes, sir. Could I have a haircut, please, sir? Or something to keep it out
of my eyes? If that’s all right?" Shut up, shut up, don’t babble.
Halvar looked him over critically. "Yes. See me before bed tonight."
"Thank you, sir," Joran said, but Halvar was already turning away toward Egon,
who had been standing nearby, evidently eavesdropping on the conversation.
"Yes, Egon," he said. "Did you want something?"
"No, sir," said the big slave. "Not unless you have need for my assistance?"
Halvar glanced over toward where the female slaves were continuing to clear
the table; as his eyes followed the pattern of their work, he asked, "And that
previous duty I had assigned you?"
"Is finished, sir, according to Lukas."
"Mm." Halvar turned his gaze away from the table and toward the door. "Come
by my office, then. In a quarter of an hour."
Egon said something in reply, but Joran did not hear his words; he was realizing
that he had less reason than Egon to be eavesdropping and had begun to hurry
down the hall to his bucket, his mind once more on his haircut. Maybe if
I look better, they’ll let me do something more than floors. I can hope.
Chapter 2
That night, Joran knocked on Halvar’s office door. "Enter," came the response,
and he did. Halvar indicated a straight-backed chair in the middle of the floor.
"Sit here; I’ll be with you in a moment."
"Yes, sir," Joran murmured, taking a seat. Halvar made notes on a datapad,
shuffling through a set of plasts and muttering to himself. The creases in his
face deepened; he sighed and turned off the communicat on his desk.
There was a knock on Halvar’s door. At his word, it opened, and Rurik entered,
stiff in his black uniform suit. His face was grim as he cleared his throat.
"Yes, Rurik?" Halvar looked up absently from his datapad.
A muscle in Rurik’s jaw twitched. "Sir, I need to speak to you."
Halvar laid down his pad. "What did you do?"
Rurik’s grin was forced; it died at Halvar’s direct gaze. "Ruined another of
the Chairman’s shirts, sir. No saving it."
"And how did that happen?" Halvar’s voice had become naked steel.
"I was steaming and pressing his clothes, and I burned myself, it really hurt,
and I turned away for a minute to run some cold water on my hand, and it must
have been longer than I thought, because the shirt had a hole burned in it when
I came back, and … " Rurik’s explanation trailed off. "I was careless, sir,"
he admitted.
"Does the Chairman know?"
"He was angry, sir. He told me to come see you." A flash of Rurik’s humor surfaced.
"I think he thought he’d kill me if he let himself take care of it."
Halvar shook his head. "Very well, get ready. Joran, stay there; I’ll be with
you in a few minutes."
"Yes, sir," Joran muttered, not sure if he wanted to witness this or not.
Rurik glanced at Joran, conveying apprehension, embarrassment, and reassurance
in one crooked half-grin. He stripped, folded the suit, and leaned over, placing
his hands on Halvar’s desk.
"How many are we up to, Rurik?" Halvar pulled a rod from his pocket.
"It was fifteen last time, sir," Rurik said.
"Seventeen now."
"Yes, sir."
Halvar frowned, his attention caught by barely-healed welts on Rurik’s smooth
golden back. "When did he beat you last?"
A deep breath. "Yesterday morning, sir."
"And you didn’t tell me?"
"I’m sorry, sir."
"Eighteen."
The muscle jumped in Rurik’s jaw again. "Yes, sir."
Joran flinched as Halvar extended the rod and stepped back. Without a word,
the Supervisor pulled his arm back and landed the rod across Rurik’s tightened
buttocks. There was a sharp intake of breath, and a murmured "One, sir."
The next stroke landed just below the first; Rurik gave an audible hiss. "Two,
sir."
The third cut across his thighs, the fourth just below his buttocks. Joran
could hear the pain in Rurik’s voice, could see it in his white-knuckled hands,
and his own hands clutched each other in sympathy. The next stroke went diagonally
over the first two, and for the first time Rurik’s groan was deep. "Five, sir!"
he ground out.
The next few cuts had Rurik groaning louder. Joran’s hands twisted, and he
buried them in his lap. He couldn’t watch; this was almost as bad as feeling
it himself.
On the ninth stroke, Rurik gave a full-throated yell. Joran jumped. "Oh God,
sir," Rurik gasped through his teeth, "that’s nine, sir."
Halvar was self-possessed as ever as he brought the rod down again. And again.
Joran heard a sob at the eleventh stroke, and on the twelfth Rurik’s knees gave
way. Halvar let him kneel for a few moments, then his voice cracked out. "Back
up. Six left."
"Jesus God," Rurik groaned, but he pulled himself back up and bent over again.
The next three were delivered in swift succession; Rurik bit on his hand to
muffle his screams. Joran was trembling, his legs pulled to his chest, his arms
wrapped around them. It wasn’t that bad, it’s just a shirt, they never beat
me this much when I make mistakes. He wanted to run out of the room, but
Halvar had told him to stay there, and he wasn’t going to disobey, not if this
would be the result. Traces of blood were trickling from Rurik’s skin where
the lines had crossed, and he gasped out, "Fifteen, sir."
Halvar was unmoved; the next one was even harder, if possible. Joran could
hear the swish of the rod through the air, even above Rurik’s voice. Rurik screamed
again, gripped the edge of the desk, and choked, "Sixteen, sir." His legs were
trembling. Halvar rested a hand on his back, letting him cry. It was a few minutes
before he could speak. "I’m sorry, sir," he said, his voice almost unrecognizable,
"can we please finish?"
"Very well," said Halvar, squeezing his shoulder. He stood again and regarded
Rurik’s presented body carefully. He lifted his arm and let it fly. "Seventeen,
sir!" came Rurik’s anguished cry, "Eighteen, sir!"
Halvar’s arm was there to prevent Rurik’s collapse, and Rurik clutched him,
weeping without shame. "Thank you, sir," he managed to gasp. Joran was near
tears himself, and he jumped up when Halvar gestured to him.
"Joran, help Rurik back to your room. We’ll take care of your hair another
time."
"Yes, sir," Joran said, not inclined to argue after the punishment he had just
witnessed. Rurik leaned on him and he strove to bear up under the weight. They
moved with care down the hall, and when they got to their room, Egon and Lukas
were there to help Rurik to bed. They let him lie there facedown until he managed
to gain control of himself.
"I told you to tell him," Lukas remarked with disinterest as he pulled a tube
of ointment out of his drawer. "How many was it?"
"Eighteen. He crossed some of them, too." Rurik hiccupped and winced as Lukas
began to dress the raw welts. "Ow, that hurts. Quit it."
"Shut up," Lukas said, spreading the ointment. "You say that every time."
"I’ll be fine." Rurik hissed. "God, that was bad. Ow, I said stop!"
"Joran, sit on his hands if he tries to move," directed Lukas. Joran wasn’t
sure if that was a joke or not, but nodded.
"Okay, okay," Rurik gave in. "Go ahead. But be careful."
"I’m always careful," said Lukas.
Joran’s stomach churned as he huddled on his bed, waiting for the lights to
go out. He’d never seen a man beaten before. He thought he’d be happier to see
Rurik suffer, but rather than feeling vindicated, he felt sympathy. He wanted
to stroke Rurik’s hair the way Lukas had done for him, wanted to make him feel
better somehow. To care. The feeling was altogether new, and he turned it over,
contemplating it. Rurik beat me. He raped me. I should want to see him dead.
With surprise, he recognized what he felt. I’m not alone. They don’t
hurt me because they hate me. This … cruelty, viciousness … this is normal.
For all of them. Us.
Lukas had finished taking care of Rurik, and began to prepare for bed. He removed
his glasses, stripped off and hung his clothes and grabbed a pair of underwear
from his drawer. Joran stared at him in shock.
He’d never seen Lukas undressed before. The man had dark, sinuous scars winding
down his back to his thighs, so many that one ran into another. Muscles shifted
under his skin, throwing the ridges into high relief. Joran was sickened, but
couldn’t stop looking. What did he do to deserve that? I never touched him,
I never ordered that, it wasn’t my fault, but God, what happened? Compared
to this, his own beatings were nothing. Even Rurik’s beating was nothing. Is
this what I have to look forward to? When will they start with the serious torture?
His face went white.
Lukas finished dressing and turned. "Are you all right?" He looked concerned.
Joran couldn’t speak for a minute, just nodded. "Sit down." Lukas pulled him
to his cot, and he sat obediently. His mind trembled, wondering how long it
would take for this new horror to work its way into his nightmares.
Lukas stared down at him for a minute. "Joran, do you want to sleep with me
tonight?"
Joran sucked in a breath. "Not if it’s a problem, sir. I don’t want to bother
you." Yes, please. Please please please.
Lukas gave a brief smile. "It’s not a problem. Come on."
Joran followed him into bed, glad beyond words. They pulled up the covers and
Lukas put an arm around him, drawing him closer. Joran relaxed into him, sighing,
then stiffened. "Sir, we forgot the gag. I don’t want to wake you up again."
The lights shut off, and Lukas rubbed his hair. "No gag tonight, I’m testing
something."
"But sir, if I have nightmares again—"
"Joran, are you arguing with me?"
"No, sir." Joran subsided.
"I thought not." Lukas sounded amused.
They lay together without speaking. Joran was drifting off when he felt a nudge
in his shoulder. "Joran?"
"Sir?" he mumbled, pulling himself out of sleep.
"What do you dream about? What’s scaring you so badly?"
Joran didn’t know how to respond. The dreams were such a jumble of images,
and the only one he remembered with clarity was the hot breath of the serpent
just before it sank his fangs into him … "Monsters, sir, like always. It’s stupid.
Just monsters." Monsters with your faces, your voices.
"What do they do?"
Joran tensed. "They hurt me."
"How?"
"They … bite me. Rip me with their claws. Tear my guts out. They can’t kill
me, something won’t let them kill me, but they can hurt me and hurt me forever."
He was on the edge of tears, remembering.
"Have they always been the same?"
"Usually, sir." Until recently.
"Usually? When did they change?"
Don’t ask me that, please don’t ask. "I … don’t know, sir."
Lukas’s voice was stern. "Don’t lie to me, Joran."
Joran gulped. "Sir, I … " Who’s in charge here? He swallowed again.
"A few nights ago, sir," he said in a small voice.
"Mmm-hmm." Lukas didn’t sound at all surprised. "What’s different now?"
"I don’t want to talk about it, sir." Joran wanted more than anything to end
the conversation before he said something that landed him in trouble again.
"I don’t care. Answer me."
"The monsters are— they’re not— they’re you. All of you." He had done his best
to avoid it, but there it was. He resigned himself to another whipping as he
plowed on. "They— you— rip me up, and it’s funny, you laugh. You hold me down
and tear at me, and no matter how much it hurts or how much I scream, I can’t
make it stop. And it doesn’t stop. That’s the scariest part, knowing it’s never
going to stop." His face was wet.
Lukas’s arm tightened around him. "I’m sorry, sir," Joran mumbled. I’m so
tired of saying that. "I can’t seem to get hold of myself these days."
Lukas said nothing for a moment. His hand rested on Joran’s head. Joran waited
for the command. When Lukas finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. "I’m
only going to say this once, so I want you to listen."
Joran tensed. "Yes, sir."
"What you are feeling, the dreams you’re having – they’re normal. That’s not
to say it’s always okay to react this way. There are some places, some households
in which you would be severely punished for what you’re doing, no matter how
much you’d been brutalized." Joran tried to take this in. Lukas went on, "We’re
trying, not always successfully, to strike a balance. I understand how you feel,
and why. But we still need to keep the household running; that can never stop."
"Yes, sir," whispered Joran. I’m such a liability.
"We’re doing our best for you. It might feel like we’re not being fair. We’re
not. Very, very few slaves are ever given justice. It would hardly be a kindness
to coddle you and then dump you out into the market if the Chairman decides
to sell you. You’d never survive."
Joran went cold all over. He hadn’t considered the possibility of sale, not
since before that terrible beating. Hearing it spoken of in such a matter-of-fact
tone was more terrifying than any overheated threat. He was so lost in his flush
of panic that he almost missed Lukas’s next words.
"But Joran, I want you to know. I’m very proud of how well you’ve done so far."
It took a second for the words to sink in. "Sir? But I’m such a problem, I’ve
given so much trouble. Did Rurik tell you he had to beat me a few days ago because
of the bucket?"
"Yes, he told me." There was a chuckle in Lukas’s voice. "He also told me that
you knelt for it right away, took it without panicking or begging for mercy,
and thanked him politely when it was over. We all screw up, gosse, it’s a fact
of life. Punishment doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, it just means you’ve done
something wrong, and you need a reminder to help you avoid it in future."
Joran thought a moment. "What about the beating Rurik got?"
He could hear Lukas’s smile in the darkness. "Some people need more of a reminder
than others."
The smile made Joran bold; he spoke before he thought. "Was the punishment
that scarred you a reminder too?"
There was a pause, and when he replied, Lukas’s voice was still. "That was
… I suppose you could call it that, yes."
Joran dared to push further. "Is that how Halvar beats you, then?"
Lukas’s hand tightened on his arm. "My discipline is not your concern. But
to answer your question, no."
"I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to be rude." An adrenaline rush prickled through
Joran’s veins as he half-expected the arm to be twisted behind him. Lukas’s
hand abruptly released him, stroked his arm.
"Calm down. I accept your apology. And I’m proud of you. You’ve come very far
in a very short time. You weren’t calling me ‘sir’ three months ago. You weren’t
worried about causing us trouble, or about behaving appropriately. You’ve made
a tremendous adjustment, especially for someone your age. You’ve done much better
than … others who’ve been in your position."
"Thank you, sir," said Joran. "I’m trying." And it’s so very, very hard.
"I know you are." Lukas’s hand rested on his head again. "I know how difficult
this is, believe me when I say that. I wish it didn’t have to be this way."
But it is. Joran’s eyes filled again; he thought about what he faced
in future – the constant struggle to obey, the brutal correction when he failed,
the acceptance of others’ dominion over his actions and his body. Unbearable.
But they do bear it, don’t they?
He blinked tears into the pillow and struggled to keep his voice normal. "I
understand, sir; I’ll do my best not to let you down."
Lukas’s arms wrapped him. "Thank you, Joran." And when he heard the depth of
compassion in his voice, Joran let go, releasing all the terror and pain and
humiliation of the last months in a quiet storm of weeping. He turned over,
buried his face in Lukas’s chest, and sobbed as Lukas held him.
Chapter 3
The next week, Joran’s duties changed.
They had just finished dinner when Halvar pushed back his chair and said "Lukas,
Joran – I want to see you in my office, please."
The two stood; Joran’s eyes, huge and questioning, got a confused shrug from
Lukas. "Somebody’s in trou—ble," singsonged Ingelev softly. Rurik swatted at
her. Lukas and Joran followed Halvar down the hall and into his office.
"Lukas," said Halvar, "I’d like a report on Joran’s progress."
"Certainly, sir," said Lukas. "His obedience has improved since the last time
we spoke. His diligence remains high, and he has not shown signs of temper or
attitude when he is given orders. He is personable and anxious to please. He
is quiet without being sullen. He’s been beaten twice in the last week for minor
infractions."
Joran squirmed inside at hearing himself dissected this way, but kept his face
carefully blank.
Halvar sat for a moment, taking notes on his datapad. Without looking up, he
asked "Joran, do you like scrubbing floors?"
Taken aback, Joran searched for something to say. "No— no, sir, not especially."
"If we train you to do something else, do you think you’ll be able to learn
it quickly?"
"I think so, sir. I’d try very hard." Anything. Anything to get off the
damned floors.
Halvar nodded, made a note. "Lukas, would you be able to take time during each
day to train Joran without neglecting any other duties?"
"I believe so, sir. I’ve been doing more than is likely necessary for maintenance."
Halvar raised an eyebrow. "I’ve noticed the waxing of the garage floor every
week, yes."
"Idleness is a tool of the devil, sir," said Lukas, the ghost of a laugh in
his voice.
Was that a smile that twitched at Halvar’s mouth? "Very well. I’ll work out
a schedule for you. Joran, continue with your current duties until further notice."
"Yes, sir," answered Joran.
"You are dismissed; I need nothing else."
"Thank you, sir," they chorused, and left the room.
The next day Lukas kept Joran in the kitchen after breakfast. "You’re going
to be trained to serve at table," he informed him. "Take your shirt off."
Joran did not like the way this was starting out, but he stripped off his gray
uniform shirt, folded it, and stood bare-chested, waiting for instructions.
"The most important rule of service," Lukas began, "is that you are invisible.
No one should be aware you’re there. You must anticipate and fulfill your guests’
every need before it’s voiced, and you must do it without being seen or heard.
That is the mark of good service. Nothing less is acceptable."
"Yes, sir," Joran said, figuring a reply was expected.
"While in training, you are not to speak at all. Learn silence." Lukas flicked
his wrist; the rod shot out to its full length. "The better you do, the less
I’ll have to use this." He grinned at the expression on Joran’s face. "Don’t
look so terrified, gosse, you’ve felt the rod before and survived. I’m not going
to cripple you; we’d never get anywhere at that rate."
Joran, who had been eyeing the rod as if it were about to bite him, swallowed
a reply and nodded. Lovely. At this rate, the only person I’ll be allowed
to talk to will be myself.
"We’ll start with pouring water. Here’s the pitcher. Hold it here, support
it here. Never allow the glass to empty. You come up on the right side if the
person is right-handed, left if he’s left. Stand here – "he positioned Joran
to the right and just behind the chair – "and pour."
Joran poured, and Lukas shook his head. "Don’t let the ice into the glass.
It makes too much noise. Try to balance the ice at the back of the pitcher.
Use your supporting hand. Do it again."
Joran did better the second time, but a few cubes managed to slip in. Lukas
frowned. "You get one more chance, gosse. Impress me."
Oh God, can I go back to floors now? Joran filled yet another glass.
Lukas shook his head. "Across the table."
Shit. Shit shit shit. Joran lowered himself across the table, gripping
the edge. "Hands behind your neck," Lukas instructed him, and he complied. The
rod flashed down once, twice, three times, and Joran let out a groan through
gritted teeth.
Lukas pulled him up. "No sound," he said, his tone soft. "No matter what, no
sound at table." He pressed Joran back down, and the rod came down again twice
more. Joran bit his lip fiercely and held his breath. The rod snicked back in
on itself.
"Much better. Stand and we’ll try it again," said Lukas. Joran stood uncomfortably,
wriggling his shoulders. It wasn’t as bad as it’d been before; it wasn’t even
as bad as when Aerne had used it, but it still hurt.
He practiced with the water for an hour. Lukas had him try it several different
ways, until he started getting it right at least half the time. "Quietly," Lukas
chided him. "Don’t let the water splash. If your guest notices you, it’s all
over." Joran clenched his teeth and poured again. And again. And again.
"Good," Lukas at last approved. "Let’s go on to step two." He took a seat at
the table, his back to Joran. "Come up and give it a try. Don’t let me see you."
Feeling as if he was playing a bizarre game of hide-and-seek, Joran stepped
up behind Lukas, who stared straight ahead. "No!" Lukas’s head whipped around.
"I heard your footsteps. No sound, gosse. Tiptoe if you have to, but be inconspicuous."
Joran went back to try again. Quiet. Quiet. He thought he was, but Lukas
raised his hand to stop him. "Once more. Last chance."
His stomach clenching, Joran retreated and turned to try it again. He stepped
carefully, his creeping almost exaggerated, but tiptoeing put him off balance
and his ankle turned. He lurched, fell, tossing the pitcher up and drenching
himself and Lukas. He sat up and blinked, unable to take in Lukas’s shout of
laughter.
"Oh, gosse, we have a lot of work to do," Lukas whooped. He extended a hand.
"Come on, up. Back over the table."
Joran was more than ready for bed by evening. When he was doing floors, he
could let his mind go blank and rest, but now he constantly had to keep his
mind on what he was doing, and he was exhausted. He took his five-minute shower
and checked his back in the mirror – the welts were still visible, but not swollen.
That must be the mildest beating I’ve ever gotten.
He dived under the covers, teeth chattering. Isn’t it supposed to be summer
now? He snuggled against Lukas, trying to warm up. Lukas wrapped an arm
around him and pulled him close. "How’s your back?" Lukas asked.
"A little sore, but not bad," said Joran. "Are we doing this tomorrow too,
sir?"
"Tomorrow and every day after. Don’t worry, it’ll get easier with practice."
"Yes, sir." Joran’s eyes were growing heavy, and the room faded away.
He was startled awake hours later by the lights overhead flashing on and off.
A buzzer sounded. He struggled with the blankets groggily. Is it morning
already? What’s happening?
Rurik was a blur as he raced past Joran to the closet. He threw his suit on,
hopping on one foot as he struggled to tie his shoes. He was out the door in
less than a minute. Joran tried to get out of bed to follow, but Lukas stopped
him.
"Is it a fire, sir?" asked Joran. "Shouldn’t we go?"
"Not a fire, gosse, the Chairman just wants Rurik." The buzzer ceased and the
lights died again. "Go back to sleep."
Joran lay back down, his heart pounding with adrenaline. He stared into the
darkness, willing himself sleepy again, but it was no use. He rolled over and
stared at where he knew Lukas was. He didn’t dare wake him up, but if he happened
to awaken …
"What is it, Joran?" Lukas’s voice was irritated.
"Sir?"
"I can feel you looking at me. What do you want?"
"I was just wondering … is that what happens when someone presses a bell upstairs?"
"That’s it."
There was quiet for a moment. Then, "I … when I was … did I do that a lot?"
Lukas rolled onto his back. "No more than most, and less than some."
"Oh." Joran didn’t want to hear any more, but he couldn’t stop asking once
he’d started. "Did I— did it make you angry?"
"No." Lukas was tired. "It’s what happens. You get used to it."
Joran lay there, digesting this. He’d never thought about what happened when
he rang the bell; he had never questioned Lukas’s presence, fully dressed, at
any hour of the day or night he’d summoned him. Seeing it from the other side
he wondered, not for the first time, what Lukas had thought of him. He wanted
to leave it, but he still couldn’t sleep, and he tossed and turned and went
hot and cold all over when he thought of how he’d acted then. I’m sorry,
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry …
"What?" Lukas had gone beyond irritated to exasperated. "What the hell is the
problem? Do I need to kick you back to your own bed?"
"I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to bother you. I just … "
"Say it. Just say it so I can answer you and we can go back to sleep."
Joran took a deep breath. "Did you hate me? Before?"
"God, gosse," Lukas groaned softly. "Do you have to do this now? It’s the middle
of the night."
"Yes, sir. I mean no, sir, I’m sorry, I’ll shut up." Please don’t hit me,
I just have to know.
Lukas didn’t say anything for a while. Joran thought he’d fallen asleep. Then
in a low voice, "The day I came here, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven."
Whatever Joran had expected to hear, that wasn’t it. He waited for the bombshell,
but there wasn’t one.
"You were fourteen," Lukas continued. "Remember?"
"Yes, sir." He’d felt so grown up, given a slave for his very own. Just like
his brother. Lukas had seemed so much older, so correct, so perfect. Joran had
rejoiced in being called "sir" at first, in having someone just to take his
orders, until it had grown so normal he didn’t notice it anymore.
"You were a nice kid. You were spoiled, sure—" Joran blushed "—but who wouldn’t
be, raised like that? And you never took advantage. I don’t think you ever threw
a fit and had me beaten. You were reasonably polite, said ‘please’ and ‘thank
you’ most of the time. And," Lukas’s smile was audible, "you never raped me."
Joran heard this with a strange disconnected feeling. He couldn’t reconcile
the person Lukas was talking about with who he was. It’s like it was a dream.
Did I ever have the power to do that?
It had never occurred to him to use Lukas for sex. He had his friends in any
combination he wanted, why would he have any need to use a slave? And what would
have been the point of having him beaten? He’d never done anything wrong. He
was perfect.
Father would never have let him give such an order anyway; he’d drilled responsibility
into him and Aerne from birth: Slaves have their own jobs to do; they don’t
need you placing impossible demands on them. Interfering with household order
can cause disaster. If you’re angry, speak to me or your friends, but don’t
take it out on your slaves – they aren’t men, they don’t have the power to object
when your orders are unreasonable. Arbitrary commands or punishments tear down
your household structure, and if you issue them, you’re a fool.
Even if Father would have let him do it then, even if he’d ever once wanted
to, he couldn’t conceive now of raping Lukas – the thought was absurd. It would
be like killing one of his friends, or destroying a painting. The very idea
made him shiver. "I never would have. Never."
"I know, gosse." Lukas ruffled his hair. "Don’t worry about it. Go to sleep."
"Sir." Joran lay still, staring at the ceiling he couldn’t see. Who was
that? It seems like a lifetime ago. I can’t believe it was me.
Chapter 4
Lukas took a sip of water, rolling it around on his tongue as if it were wine.
Joran took advantage of his distraction to slide another pastry onto his plate.
He stepped back to the wall without a sound, watching intently. Lukas turned
around and smiled. "Well done. I didn’t see it until you were already gone."
Joran smiled and ducked his head. He couldn’t respond until the training session
was over, but the praise warmed him. Lukas took a bite of pastry, made a face.
"I can’t keep eating this way. I’m going to make myself sick. Here, you eat
it." He tossed it to Joran, who caught it, startled. "We’re done for the day.
You did well."
"Thank you, sir," said Joran, surprised and grateful. He bit into the warm
pastry, relishing the taste of sweet cheese. He didn’t get things like this
anymore, and the sugar and cream felt luxurious in his mouth. He only half heard
Lukas’s next remark.
"I think it’s time to try you out on the others. Let’s do that tonight."
Joran’s attention arrested, he stopped with the pastry halfway to his mouth.
"Tonight? Oh sir, please don’t."
"Why not?"
"I"—don’t want them to laugh at me when I fail miserably? He swallowed.
"No reason, I guess, sir. I’ve only been on this for a couple months; I’m just
nervous."
"Don’t be, you’re doing fine." Lukas gathered the silverware. "You got the
table setting right for the occasion, you served the correct wine, and you gave
me strawberries before I realized I wanted them."
"But what if I screw up, sir?" Joran’s voice rose higher as he stacked plates
and carried them into the kitchen.
"Oh gosse, of course you’ll screw up. It’s your first time with multiple guests;
you’re bound to make a mistake. No one will blame you, you’ll take your punishment
and we’ll go on. Very simple." Lukas caught Joran’s expression; his voice hardened.
"Do you have a problem, Joran?"
"No, sir," mumbled Joran. He schooled his features into blandness.
"That’s better. That look has no place at table."
"Yes, sir."
Joran took his accustomed place by the wall as everyone else was seated. Halvar
gave grace, and they all responded. Lukas raised a hand, and Halvar nodded.
"Joran will be serving us tonight," said Lukas. "He needs practice on a larger
group. He may not reach all of you in time, but if he does serve you and you
see or hear him do it, say something." Nods around the table, and dinner began.
He kept the water glasses filled easily. He had mastered that early on, and
Lukas couldn’t catch him out if he tried. It was harder with so many, but not
as hard as he’d anticipated. It was like a game at this point. He switched to
the salad, easing the bowl with care from the corner of the table. None for
Halvar; he doesn’t like it. Rurik gets some, Egon gets more, Ingelev gets a
little – he was doing fine until Tekla, when she turned to get Ingelev’s
attention and jumped as she saw him standing there. She squeaked and raised
her hand. "Lukas … "
Joran had his shirt off before Lukas got to him; he stepped away from the table
and turned around, his hands behind his neck. No noise. No noise. He
bit his lip as the rod stung his back. Once, twice, and again, and Lukas said
"Continue." He let out a soft, shuddering breath and put his shirt back on.
Lost that round. Let’s keep it up with the salad, then go to the meat.
He was corrected twice more during the meal, but Lukas smiled at him when dinner
was over. "Well done. We’ll do this again tomorrow night."
"Most impressive," commented Halvar to Lukas. "He’s picked it up quickly."
"Thank you, sir," said Lukas, quietly satisfied. "I appreciate your giving
me this opportunity."
Halvar nodded. "You’ve done well."
Joran helped clear the table and started with the dishes. Tekla and Ingelev
splashed suds at him; he laughed and splashed back. He hummed as he scrubbed
the pots. Halvar was pleased. And tomorrow I’ll be perfect. Gudrun passed
and gave him a smile; he returned it, and felt that nothing could be better.
"Sir?" came Joran’s voice in the dark.
"Speak," came the by-now-familiar response.
"Was Halvar really happy about tonight?"
"Halvar," said Lukas dryly, "was as close to ecstatic as I’ve seen him. I think
he really believes we’re going to pull this off. You’ve done much better than
anyone anticipated."
"I have?" Joran felt a rush of pride. "That’s good. I mean, I wouldn’t want
to get anyone else in trouble because I wasn’t good enough." Responsibility
had been weighing on him since he’d realized what was riding on his training.
I’m going to make it. We’re going to be okay.
"Don’t rest on your triumphs just yet, gosse. You still have work to do. That
bit with the meat was just sloppy."
"Yes, sir," said Joran, snuggling beside Lukas. "I’ll work on that tomorrow."
Joran could hear the raised voices from down the hallway, but couldn’t make
out the words. Someone was angry, and he scanned back over the day, hoping it
wasn’t anything he’d done. He’d gotten used to being whipped at least a couple
of times a week, but that didn’t make him like it any better. Egon looked up
from his book. "They’re fighting again," he remarked. "That lasted longer than
I thought."
There was a thump, and the wall shook. Outside the door came a groan, and Rurik’s
voice. "All right, all right!" The door flew open and Lukas and Rurik staggered
in, both breathing hard. Rurik’s color was high, and there was a bruise already
forming on Lukas’s cheek. "Shut the door," grumbled Rurik, and Lukas did. They
glared at each other for a moment.
Rurik broke away first. "Joran, come on, let’s go to bed and—"
"No!" Lukas himself looked startled at the force in his tone, but he remained
firm. "Ask."
Rurik heaved a disgusted sigh. "Fine! Okay. Jesus. Joran, do you want to have
sex?"
"What?" Joran’s shock made Egon snort with laughter. "I mean, sir, I … what?"
"It’s a simple question, gosse," Rurik said.
"Maybe you need to ask nicely," Lukas pointed out. "That wasn’t very romantic."
"Oh, fuck," Rurik muttered.
Joran looked from one to the other. "Sir, is this a joke?"
"No. Now do you want to fuck or not?" Rurik asked.
"Seductive," murmured Lukas.
"You shut up, Lukas."
Joran was at a loss for words. "Sir … why are you asking me?"
"Because," Lukas answered for him, looking at Rurik sharply, "he understands
that it’s not necessary to continue with what we did before. Right?"
"I said all right," Rurik grumbled. To Joran, "Well?"
"You don’t have to," Lukas warned him. "It’s up to you."
Joran’s eyes flicked back and forth. Except for that time Lukas had held his
hand, he hadn’t been given a choice about anything to do with himself in months.
Okay. I can make decisions. I used to do it all the time. He began to
say "No," changed his mind before it came out, changed it back, and sat there
without saying a word, flushed and hesitant.
Take this one step at a time. Do I want to have sex?
With Rurik? Sure. Maybe. Not really. No.
Can I say no?
Lukas says I can.
Does he mean it?
Joran looked at the bruise on Lukas’s face, at his cool expression as he waited
for Joran’s decision. Yes.
"No, thank you, sir," said Joran.
Rurik blew out his breath. "Damn. You sure?"
" … Yes."
"Ah well." Rurik shrugged in resignation. "Back to the girls for me, looks
like. Unless you want to?" He cocked his head at Lukas.
"Never happen," said Lukas. "Stop trying."
"Yeah, well then. I’ve got a few minutes before lights out, right? Back soon!"
And Rurik tore out of the room.
"He needs a hobby," said Egon.
"That is his hobby," answered Lukas with a smile. He caught sight of Joran
and looked surprised. "Haircut?"
"Yes, sir, Halvar gave it to me. It’s all right, isn’t it?"
"If Halvar does it, it is. I just hadn’t expected it." There was a pause. "You
look nice."
"Thank you, sir."
"Sir?"
"Go ahead."
"Why doesn’t Egon want to have sex with me anymore?"
"Are you so irresistible?"
"What? No, sir, that’s not what I meant—"
"I know, gosse, I know," Lukas chuckled. "You aren’t Egon’s type." Lukas shifted,
pulling his arm out from under Joran’s head. "Egon and Halvar have been lovers
for years. You didn’t know that upstairs?"
Joran blinked in surprise. "Oh. No, no I didn’t. Does that work?"
"Halvar’s in charge, Egon likes it that way. Perfect match."
"Oh." Silence for a moment. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"You can ask. You may not get an answer."
"Why don’t you want to have sex with Rurik?"
Lukas snorted softly. "Rurik is not my type."
Am I?
He didn’t ask.
Lukas drove him hard for the next month – his mistakes were fewer, but the
punishment was harsher than before. Everyone seemed on edge, and Joran tried
to remain calm as he sensed it. Something’s going to happen. Soon.
It did. One morning Halvar strode back into the kitchen soon after he’d left
the breakfast table, catching the few slaves left. "Attention, please." His
voice was typically composed, but by now Joran knew him well enough to hear
the underlying tension. "The Chairman has just notified me that he expects to
see Joran at his breakfast today."
The room was silent. Joran couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Oh God. Oh
God. Please don’t let this be happening. "Joran, you should borrow Rurik’s
other suit. Lukas, please make it fit him as well as possible. He should be
ready in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, sir," Lukas said, already on his way to their room. Joran stood in the
middle of the floor; his stomach turned to ice. "I’ll be ready, sir," he whispered.
Halvar nodded, unperturbed. "I’m sure you will be. I’ll be back to escort you
abovestairs." He left them to dress. Joran followed Lukas down the hall as if
he was sleepwalking. The Chairman. Aerne. God.
"Pants, shirt, jacket … " Lukas muttered, throwing articles onto the bed. He
looked at the pants critically. "We’ll pin them," he decided. "Egon, find Gudrun
and get some pins."
"Right," said Egon. He left without another word. Lukas fussed over the jacket
and black shirt, then turned to look at Joran, who still stood motionless. "Hey,
gosse, come on, snap out of it. You need to get these on."
Joran turned huge, frightened eyes to Lukas. "I can’t do this, sir. I can’t.
Please don’t make me go up there. Please—" he began to shake— "I’m so afraid,
I’m going to ruin everything. I’ll do anything you say, I’ll never say another
word to another person, I’ll scrub floors the rest of my life. Please don’t
make me do this."
"Stop that." Lukas grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Don’t you dare lose
it now. You want me to go up there and tell the Chairman he doesn’t get what
he asks for?"
Yes. "Sir, please … " Save me.
"Get it straight, gosse, no one can get you out of this. You go up there and
behave yourself. If you don’t, I swear to God we’ll all beat the shit out of
you."
The threat was something to hold on to. Joran took a trembling breath. "Yes,
sir," he said unsteadily.
Lukas thrust the shirt at him. "Put this on," he ordered, and Joran did.
Egon came back with the pins, and ten minutes later Lukas pronounced Joran
presentable. They headed back to the kitchen, Joran trying to keep his legs
from trembling. He submitted himself for Halvar’s inspection. Halvar looked
him over solemnly and shook his head. "We should have had something ordered
for you. No matter, this will do for now. Come with me, please."
Joran followed Halvar with reluctance; he felt that weights were on his ankles,
pulling him down. Sickness rose in him; he was cold all over and terribly afraid
he’d cry again. Snap out of it. They’re counting on you. Don’t fuck up.
They went up the stairs, the stairs that Joran hadn’t ascended in over six
months. Nothing seemed familiar; he had to rub his eyes to keep them from blurring.
The thought of Aerne waiting for him was unreal. Aerne had been his brother
once; now he was the Chairman, ruler of the house, a veritable god. Everyone
jumped when he snapped his fingers. I don’t want to see him, I don’t, I don’t.
His stomach twisted and he gasped for air, clutching the wall. Halvar stopped.
"Joran? What’s the matter?"
"Nothing, sir," panted Joran. "I’m just … I’ll be okay in a minute, if I could
just have a minute, sir?"
"Joran, the Chairman wishes to see you now. Not in a minute. You’ve done well
at rehearsing, now it’s time to put it into practice."
Joran was lost. "Practice? Sir?"
"You will serve him breakfast."
Joran’s head spun at the enormity of this pronouncement. "Sir, I can’t! I’m
not— I can’t do it, sir, I’m not good enough, I’ll ruin everything!"
"You are good enough, you will do it, and you will not ruin anything. No excuses,
no objections. Do you really need a lesson in obedience at this point?"
"No, sir," Joran whispered. I’m trapped. Again.
"Not a sound," said Halvar as they left the stairwell and went to the dumbwaiter,
where Egon and Lukas had sent up the breakfast cart. "Egon and Lukas will bring
out the food; you will serve. And Joran—"
"Sir?"
"Make no mistake; if you do anything to arouse the Chairman’s anger, I will
punish you myself." Halvar’s eyes glinted chilly in the early morning light.
Joran couldn’t speak, only nod. There was no more thought, only fright and a
desperate will to get through this meal.
Lukas and Egon came up the stairs and took the cart, wheeling it into the dining
room. Joran followed behind; at every step he felt like screaming. Lukas returned,
came back in with the juice pitcher. He handed it to Joran, his face communicating
an urgent message of threat and support. Joran nodded in response, taking a
deep, soundless breath. He turned his attention to the figure sitting in front
of him, the blond braid snaking down behind the chair back. Don’t think about
it. Pretend it’s Lukas. Don’t let him catch you.
Aerne snapped his newsreader open, and the game began. Joran filled his glass
while Aerne concentrated on the market news, muttering to himself. Enough
time to serve the eggs? I think so. Quickly, quickly, quietly … Joran carefully
spooned eggs onto Aerne’s plate. He added two sausages. I’m not here, you
don’t see me, I’m not here. He melted back to the wall as Aerne turned to
his food and grunted, beginning to eat.
Joran relaxed for a moment, studying Aerne as if he were a mathematics problem.
He keeps breaking to check the reports. That’s when I’ll move next. He
refilled the juice glass before Aerne had quite emptied it, added a pastry when
the eggs ran low, hit the coffee mug when Aerne choked in response to something
he read and began muttering at the newsreader.
It’s working. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t know I’m here. I can get out
without him ever knowing I was here. He was invisible, and that was all
he wanted to be around Aerne. No cold gaze, no cutting remarks that made him
feel worse than nothing, just silence and quiet servitude.
Aerne glanced at his watch and muttered something. "Fetch Halvar," he said
without turning around. Joran slipped through the door without a word. Halvar
was on the other side; Joran pulled back before he ran into him. Halvar nodded
and followed. Joran went back to his place at the wall; Halvar cleared his throat.
"Sir, what can I do for you?"
Aerne set his reader down and said, without looking at Halvar, "I requested
that Joran be brought to me at breakfast. Why am I ignored?"
"Sir, he is here." Halvar succeeded in keeping a triumphant note out of his
voice; he sounded as controlled as ever. "Behind you, sir."
Aerne sat still for a moment, then slowly, deliberately, stood and turned.
Joran dropped his eyes and tried to blend into the wall. No. No. Don’t notice
me. I’m not here, I was never here.
"Lillebroder." Aerne’s voice was little more than a whisper. "Look at you."
He walked to Joran, reached out and touched a lock of his newly cut hair, ran
a finger down his black suit. "Was that you this entire time?"
Joran looked to Halvar for help. I’m not supposed to talk … Halvar made
a subtle gesture, and Joran bit his lip. "Yes, sir," he said, barely audible.
He jumped as Aerne’s shout of laughter rang from the high ceiling. "My God,
Halvar! This is more than I ever expected of you! How on earth did you manage
this?"
Halvar allowed himself a twitch of a smile. "I followed your orders, sir. He
has proved very useful."
"I will be damned!" Aerne was all good humor. "He certainly is. How long has
this been going on, Joran?"
Joran cleared his throat. It took several tries before he could speak. "I’ve
been training for three months, sir. I’ve been belowstairs for over six." He
still couldn’t look at Aerne, couldn’t focus on that face he had hated and feared
for so long.
Aerne laughed again and pulled out his chair, turning it and dropping into
it to look at them. "It’s been six months already? You’ve learned to behave
very well."
"Thank you, sir," whispered Joran, concentrating on his hands.
"Tell me—" Aerne looked at Halvar "—did he give you any trouble?"
"Surprisingly little, sir. He’s been obedient, for the most part."
"He has?" Aerne chuckled. "Must be his mother coming out in him. Joran!"
Joran flinched. "Yes, sir?"
"Do they beat you often down there?"
Joran flushed. "No, sir, not so much anymore."
Aerne laughed again. "Didn’t take you long to knuckle under, did it? I’m surprised;
I thought Father taught you better than that."
For a moment there was nothing.
Father. Oh Father.
You would be so ashamed of me.
He could do nothing but stare in mute shock. Aerne smiled back at him. "Don’t
look so hurt, Joran; you can’t help what’s in your blood." He stood suddenly,
catlike. "Let me see what they did. Take off your jacket."
Joran’s fingers fumbled with the buttons; he concentrated hard to avoid the
pain filling his mind. "And the shirt, come on, lillebroder, snap it up."
The shirt’s buttons took less time; he turned without being told so Aerne could
inspect his back. He closed his eyes as tears spilled out, as he felt Aerne’s
long chill fingers run lightly over his skin. There was a terrible quiet.
"Good Christ, Halvar," said Aerne, "what’s this?"
"Those are from a chain, sir. About four months old."
"You whipped him with a chain? My God, did he kill someone?"
"It was necessary for discipline, sir." Halvar betrayed no tremor at the strain
in Aerne’s voice. Joran wondered if he was human.
"And these? What made these?"
"The rod, sir. He was punished three days ago."
"What was that for?"
"Forgetfulness, sir. Joran can be absent-minded, and occasionally he needs
a reminder to keep his mind on his work."
Aerne made a noncommital noise. His hand left Joran’s back, and there was a
pause as they waited to see what Aerne would do. There was a deep breath, an
almost noiseless sigh.
"So Joran, you’ve learned to take punishment, have you?" Aerne’s voice had
regained its pleasantness. "Let’s test that."
I should have known. What Joran had thought might be brotherly compassion
was gone. His stomach roiled as Aerne spun him around and shoved him forward,
forcing him over the table. He snapped his hands to the back of his neck automatically,
bracing himself. He heard the snick of the rod, and it bit into him hard.
No sound. No sound at table. He breathed hard as the rod cut down, trying
to focus on anything else. The grain of the wood, the smell of the polish, anything
but the swish of the rod through the air and the cold line of fire as it struck
him. It’s not that bad. Not. That. Bad. Rurik had worse. I’ve had worse –
oh fuck, FUCK— not that— OW— bad— mouth shut, mouth shut, dammit—
"Astounding." Joran heard the rod retract. "Halvar, I don’t know what you did
to put the fear of God into him, but it was more effective than I could possibly
have imagined." Joran held position, tried to quiet his raspy breathing before
he drew more attention.
"Thank you, sir." Halvar was, as always, serene. "If you’re finished with him,
sir?"
"Oh, by all means." Aerne stepped away. "I’ll want to speak with you later,
Halvar. Noon in the library."
"Certainly, sir. Joran, stand up."
He obeyed. Of course he obeyed. He tried not to let the pain show on his face
as he turned to Aerne. Have to finish it. Never over until— "Thank you,
sir. Is there anything else you require?"
Aerne was taken aback. "What? Oh dear God, Halvar, you have got him
well trained." He shook his head. "Not at present, Joran. I’ll let you know
when I need you again."
"Thank you, sir," came Joran’s voice, low and soft, and he followed Halvar
back down the stairs.
Chapter 5
"Well?" Gudrun.
"It went well." Halvar, understated as usual.
"I knew it!" Rurik, overenthusiastic as usual.
I thought Father taught you better than that.
"Well done, gosse."
"Thank you, sir."
I thought
"I don’t mind saying I’m relieved."
"And I’m not?"
Father
"I wasn’t worried."
"Egon, you lie."
Taught you
"Are you all right, gosse? You look pale."
Better
"I’m fine, sir."
Than that.
"Everyone go back to work, please. We’ll discuss this at a later date."
"Should I run him through more training, sir?"
Taught you
"Not at the moment. Joran, the kitchen floor needs scrubbing. Go change."
Father
"Yes, sir."
Father
Joran scrubbed the floors in a daze. He didn’t respond to the smiles, the words
of encouragement that were tossed his way. He worked mechanically, rinsing,
scrubbing, moving on. Never missing a spot, never resting.
He was numb. Numb and cold. The words beat in his brain, thundered in his chest.
Father.
Taught you better.
He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel a thing beyond the words.
Father.
Oh God.
It was true. He had given in, had knuckled under, had collapsed under threat
of pain. He had barely put up a fight. He had allowed Aerne to crush him, to
completely defeat him, with nothing more than token resistance.
Father.
You must be so ashamed of me.
Father had taught him so much. Had loved him so much. "My bright boy, joy of
my life." Father had been so proud. So caring.
I’ve failed you.
Joran moved down the hall, away from the chatter in the kitchen. The flagstones
were chilly under his knees. He barely noticed; the ice in his chest had spread
throughout his body. The world was cold. Water splashed on the stones, and he
scrubbed at it, hardly aware.
He looked up at the sound of a voice. It took him a moment to understand the
words.
"Halvar wants to see you. Right away."
He put the brush down and stood, followed Tekla back through the kitchen and
through the labyrinthine halls to Halvar’s office. She gave him an odd look
as she left him there. He knocked.
"Enter."
Joran pushed the door open. "Sir." He felt pain cut inside him.
"Joran, the Chairman has requested that you serve at his dinner party this
evening."
Detached, Joran wondered why he wasn’t more surprised. "Yes, sir."
"Lukas will be in charge. You and Egon will assist."
"Yes, sir."
Halvar frowned. "You do understand how important this is? You seem far steadier
than you were this morning."
"Yes, sir. I mean yes, I understand."
Halvar eyed him in suspicion. "Are you well?"
"I’m fine, sir."
He could tell Halvar didn’t believe him. "Very well, then. Lukas is redoing
Rurik’s suit for you; see him this afternoon for fitting."
"Yes, sir." Joran wondered if his voice sounded as empty as he thought it did.
"Is there anything else, sir?"
"No, you may go." Halvar looked concerned.
"Thank you, sir." Joran closed the door gently behind him.
Father.
I’m so sorry.
All was rushed as the slaves prepared for the Chairman’s dinner. Gudrun was
a madwoman, tasting and stirring and shouting orders at anyone in her path.
The kitchenmaids dashed from one task to another, snarling at Rurik when he
tried to sneak a taste. Lukas and Egon were discussing strategy at the table;
Joran sat with them, listening with half his mind, an island of calm.
"If you take the rolls, I can follow with the bisque before it has time to
cool." Lukas raised his voice. "Joran, are you listening?"
"Yes, sir." Joran’s voice was dead. Knuckled under.
"What did I just say?"
"Egon takes the rolls. You’ll follow with the bisque. I pour wine, red for
everyone except Marya who’s allergic."
Lukas cocked an eyebrow. "Gosse, what’s wrong?"
"Nothing, sir." I’ve failed and disgraced my father.
"Are you going to freak out on me?"
"No, sir." You were right before, I’m nothing. Less than nothing.
"Dammit, Joran—" Lukas sighed. "All right. Egon, you’ll take the carts out
… "
Joran stood against the wall, shadows of candlelight flickering across him.
Lukas stood at the opposite wall, alert to the needs of any of his guests. They
were at the main course, eating and talking and teasing each other. Joran eased
to Bastien’s left, refilling Emil’s wineglass. He’d become expert at this, had
been proud of himself when Lukas approved his technique. No one noticed him;
he slipped back into the shadows.
"That’s too heavy to be paired with the fish," Emil said, a lock of hair falling
over his serious face. "You need something lighter. Teleof et Mazurin screams
‘weekend connoisseur,’ and they’ll know it."
"Emil, not everyone is such a snob as you are," Kjell said. "I think it’s fine."
"For his first annual meeting?" Emil was appalled. "You’d tell him it was fine
if he wanted to serve beer!"
"Be a nice change," Kjell muttered.
"I can’t speak to you." Emil turned away. "Richilde, some support please?"
Richilde looked up vaguely from her plate. "Emil is right. Aerne, you know
he knows what he’s talking about. This is important."
"I’m aware of that." Aerne’s voice was dry. "Kjell, you’re a boor. Emil, can
you recommend something else?"
"Give me a day. Let me think." Emil sipped at his full glass. "This isn’t bad."
"I looked over your speech again," Bastien broke in. "It’s no good. You’re
too damned arrogant; it makes you sound weak."
Aerne’s face grew pale with frustration. "I worked for days on that speech.
You said the last draft was too conciliatory."
"It was. This is the opposite. You say all this out loud, and they won’t take
you seriously." Bastien drummed his fingers on the table. Joran stole up behind
him, stepped back as he seized his glass and drained it. "You need a gesture.
Something subtle."
"Something that says ‘You don’t fuck with me, I fuck with you,’" giggled Elisabet.
"Language, dearest," said Marya. "You’re getting too old for a guttermouth."
Elisabet gave a false, bright smile. "So good of you to benefit me with the
wisdom of your years."
"Enough," said Bastien. "This is serious, no time for fighting."
"Speaking of … " drawled Zachris. "I heard another rumor about your brother."
Aerne lifted a lazy eyebrow. "Another? What’s this, I had him dismembered and
shipped to my hunting cabin, where I mounted his head as a trophy?"
"Nothing so interesting," Zachris grinned. "Only that you attacked him, he
fought back, and you killed him with your bare hands and had the gardeners bury
him." Behind him, Lukas stood stiffly in the shadows. Joran was barely breathing.
"Fascinating," said Aerne. "Who began it?"
Zachris shrugged. "One of his circle, most likely. They seem to be giving up
with this one. It’s not nearly as inventive as the first. They’re children;
they don’t stick with things for long."
"I liked the first one," said Marya. "What did happen, Aerne? No one’s seen
him in months; you’re inviting all this bizarre speculation. At first it was
funny, but eventually the police may get involved, and they can be so tiresome."
Aerne snorted. "I’m not worried."
"Why not?" Richilde stole a bite off his plate. "Tell us what happened to him."
"I’m sure he’ll turn up at some point." Aerne nudged her glass. "Finish your
wine."
Joran couldn’t move for a moment. They didn’t forget me. They’re trying
to find me. The thought of how he would appear to his friends now sent another
shaft through his heart, and he closed his eyes for an instant, begging for
all he’d lost. He opened them right away, aware of Lukas’s subtle gesture with
a sense that went beyond sight. It was time to serve dessert, and he did so
automatically, skilled from practice. The frozen ache in his chest threatened
to shatter, but he slid the fruits and cheeses onto the plates and placed them
in front of each guest. They laughed and talked, teasing each other with sharp
little jabs that held a world of meaning to those in the know. Joran stood back
in silence. Watching.
Aerne and his friends retired to the sitting room when they were finished,
and Joran, Lukas, and Egon cleared the table. They sent the dishes downstairs,
hurrying down the steps to meet the cart. "It went well," commented Egon, clapping
Joran on the shoulder.
"Yes, sir," Joran said, the words sticking in his throat. He carried the china
to the sink, began placing it in the cycler. His hands felt disconnected from
his body as he worked; his head felt light, removed. It was with a sense of
distance that he saw the plate slip from his hands, saw it fall in slow motion
and shatter on the floor. He seemed to hear the crash long after it happened.
Everyone in the kitchen looked up, and Lukas groaned. "Joran … " He put down
his handful of silverware, came over to where Joran stood staring at the mess
at his feet. "God, gosse, you were doing so well today, and then you let this
happen!"
He grabbed Joran by the arm, and Joran slowly turned dull eyes to him. He couldn’t
hear the lecture, couldn’t feel the grip on his arm, just followed dazedly as
Lukas pulled him across the kitchen and bent him over the table. There was a
pause as Lukas took off his belt and lifted Joran’s shirt and jacket over his
head. Joran didn’t move, didn’t speak as the belt fell. He could barely feel
it. A tiny voice in his mind urged him to respond, to put his hands behind his
neck and say all the right things, but he was so weary he just couldn’t summon
the energy to do it.
He didn’t notice the beating had stopped until Lukas pulled down his shirt
and hauled him back up. Lukas said something, but Joran couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t
focus on Lukas’s face. All he saw was Aerne’s quiet, cruel smile and heard his
light voice. Didn’t take you long to knuckle under, did it?
They’re children; they don’t stick with things for long.
You don’t fuck with me, I fuck with you.
He was dimly aware of someone hitting him, and with a great effort he brought
his attention back to his situation. Lukas slapped him, hard. "Joran, answer
me this instant. Joran!" He slapped him again.
"Sir," Joran mumbled.
Lukas was furious. "What the hell is wrong with you? Have you gone completely
round the bend? Straighten the hell up before I get the others and we really
have to hurt you!"
"Sorry, sir," said Joran. The ache wouldn’t let him be afraid of this threat,
though the voice in his mind was screaming. "I’m not well, sir. May I be excused?"
Lukas stared at him. But something in Joran’s look clearly made him nervous,
and he nodded. "All right. Go."
Joran lurched into the hallway, feeling sick. More than sick. Oh God, I’m
going to throw up. He ran down the corridor, tripping over the edge of a
stone, and ducked into the bucket room. Slamming the door, he dashed to the
sink where he vomited. He sank to his knees, sobbing as he heaved.
Oh Father, Kristian, help, I’m sorry, I failed, I’m nothing, you were so wrong
about me, I was so wrong, I’m so ashamed, such a sham, gave in, gave up, let
him take it all, gave it all away, oh Kristian Sune Britte how can you forgive
me, forgive what I am, forgive what I did oh I deserve no help no love no comfort
Father please help me there is no help for such as I …
He sobbed, deep choking sobs that he hadn’t cried even when his father had
died. He felt such pain, such disappointment, and such resentful burning anger
toward himself that his sobs turned to screams.
"God, oh dear God, why am I allowed to live?"
He couldn’t stop crying, crying worse than when he’d been beaten, when he’d
been raped as a lesson that he was nothing, that he was worse than nothing,
because he’d had it all and pissed it all away, giving in for nothing more than
an end to pain and a pair of arms wrapped around him in the night. I am nothing,
I deserve nothing, I have failed and humiliated myself and my friends and my
father and all I ever knew or was …
And now I am a slave.
Chapter 6
Joran sat curled on the floor for a long time. No one came looking for him,
no one shouted for him. He’d cried all the tears he could. His self-hatred still
burned in him, no longer a blaze but a dull smolder.
I am worthless.
I am nothing.
I deserve nothing.
Hours passed. He saw his father in his mind. I wish I could explain, Father.
I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry. He tried to imagine his father smiling
at him, forgiving him as he’d always done, but Sten just sat there with a look
of disappointment. That look had been enough to send him to his room in tears
when he was a child.
I gave up.
Worthless fucking coward.
I just gave up.
The night wore on. More images floated through his brain: Kristian, gently
touching his face, a light in his eyes. Katrin’s soft flesh, her vague, brilliant
smiles. Britte’s face as she hugged him that last time. Greger, his body firm
and solid. Sune, a long form slouched seductively against the wall. All had
loved him, or said they had. They had tried to find him. They’re children;
they don’t stick with things for long.
How long until they gave up?
Until they found he wasn’t worth saving?
The thoughts repeated over and over became familiar. He rested his forehead
on his knees. I’m disgusting. No wonder Aerne despises me. I despise myself.
He writhed, remembering how he’d been so compliant, how he’d opened so quickly
for the slaves’ use. How happy it had made him when they approved of him. He’d
wanted them to like him. Wanted to belong. I let go of everything I was.
Time dragged.
Don’t hate me. I’m so sorry.
I hate myself enough.
He wondered what time it was. Wondered if they knew where he was. He’d welcome
whatever punishment they gave him, if it would distract him from the pain inside.
I wanted them to like me. To be proud of me.
I’m so fucking stupid.
Who could?
Thoughts chased each other round and round.
I’m a slave.
I’ve always been a slave. I just didn’t know.
I guess the training didn’t take, Father. I was a fraud.
He hugged the knowledge to himself, accepting it. He took a deep breath. Let
it out. All right. He could acknowledge it now. He deserved neither respect
nor love, and he regretted his friends and father had been so deceived in him.
I’m sorry. I’m not who you thought I was. Not who I thought I was.
Father, I hope you’re in a happier place. I hope you never find out about this.
Disappointment in himself still stabbed deeply, but he sighed and tried to
get used to it. It’s not going away. Not ever. He stiffly pulled himself
off the floor. He didn’t know what time it was, but he could hear clattering
sounds down the hall, which meant Gudrun had begun breakfast, which meant it
was time for him to get out of the bed he’d never gotten in and get dressed.
His suit was a bit crumpled, but he shrugged. He didn’t have another; this would
have to do.
He went to the bathroom, wet his hair and combed it back. His eyes were red-rimmed
and bloodshot. No help for that. A knock on the door made him jump, and he opened
it to see Rurik. "I’m just through, sir," he mumbled, edging past him.
"Lukas wants to see you," came Rurik’s voice behind him.
"Thank you, sir," Joran said, changing course to the bedroom.
Lukas was still there, dressing. He raised an eyebrow as Joran came in. "Out
all night, gosse?"
"I’m sorry, sir," Joran muttered. "I won’t do it again." Each word pounded
at him, drove the sense of self-disgust deeper. This is what I deserve. Live
with it.
Lukas stared at him. "Good." He finished buttoning his jacket. "You’re to serve
at table until further notice. I’ll supervise until I think you’re fine on your
own."
"Yes, sir." No more complaining. I’m the one who threw it away.
"Report to Gudrun after breakfast."
"Yes, sir." Feel the hurt. It’s all there is.
"And I don’t ever want to see a repeat of last night. Understood?"
"Yes, sir. You won’t." All my fault.
"Good."
His days fell into a pattern – eat, serve Aerne breakfast, wash the dishes,
scrub the kitchen floor, serve Aerne lunch, wash the dishes, clean the bathroom
and bedroom they all shared, eat, serve Aerne dinner, wash the dishes, sleep.
He didn’t hold back his feelings of guilt and shame anymore. They flooded him
at odd moments, but their depth was decreasing. Life became gray. He cried in
silence sometimes, his face pressed into the sheets of his cot, but his violent
despair seemed to have burned itself out. He was quiet and perfectly subservient,
and if Lukas suspected his eyes were puffy with anything other than lack of
sleep, he never let on.
Aerne ignored him completely, taking his service for granted as he did everyone’s.
Joran knew he should be grateful not to be tormented, but it was hard to feel
anything other than a dull resentment toward Aerne. You didn’t have to do
it, alderbroder. It’s my fault I couldn’t stop you, but you didn’t have to.
Halvar sent him on errands, now he was allowed abovestairs. He went to the
library one day to pick up some printouts Halvar needed, and froze in surprise
as he saw the sky for the first time in months. It’s winter still. Again?
Has it been so long? Snow lay on the ground; the sky was ashen with clouds.
He stepped towards the window, touched it. Cold. He was seized with a sudden
longing to fling open the windows, jump out, run through the snow and breathe
air, real air.
He forced himself to turn away. Until Aerne changed his orders, he wasn’t allowed
outside, and Aerne was his god now. Who knew if he was even allowed near the
windows? He grabbed the plasts and strode back downstairs. I do not belong
up here anymore.
Aerne sent for him after dinner a few weeks later. Wanted him in the library.
Joran obeyed immediately, steeling himself for another round of insult and humiliation.
He’d hoped Aerne was over it, that he’d leave him alone now that his
dominance had been so irrefutably proven.
He entered the library without a sound and waited by the door, eyes down, hands
folded, for Aerne to acknowledge him. Minutes ticked by. He felt the familiar
pangs of self-hatred for his compliance.
"Come here, Joran."
He obeyed, presenting himself in front of Aerne’s desk, his eyes still
lowered. He wondered if another beating was in the offing. By now he figured
he didn’t need to have done anything; his very existence was offense enough.
Aerne set aside what he was working on. "Look at me, lillebroder. You don’t
have to stand there cowering; look at me like a man would do."
I’m a slave, not a man, Joran thought distantly, but raised his
eyes to meet Aerne’s. "That’s much better," Aerne smiled. "Many happy
returns, brother."
Joran was lost. "Sir?"
"I believe that’s the appropriate greeting, is it not? Many happy returns
of the day?" Joran stared blankly; Aerne sighed. "Happy birthday, Joran."
Birthday? "Thank you, sir," Joran responded in confusion. "What’s—
what date is it?" My birthday?
"Joran, you know when your birthday is." Aerne said, lightly sardonic. "I’d
think you’d be able to figure it out. It’s the nineteenth of February,
and you’re twenty years old. In case you’d forgotten your age, too."
"Oh." Joran was still lost. "I— uh, thank you, sir." What do you want?
He flinched as Aerne stood and came around the desk toward him. What
now, birthday spankings with barbed wire? He took a breath. Oh God, I
wish I hadn’t thought that.
"Joran." Aerne’s voice was warm, and if he hadn’t been sure Aerne
hated him, he would have thought he was being kind. "I know this last year has
been difficult for you. Father’s death hit you very hard; understandable,
given your closeness. You’ve been through a lot of change, and it’s
been hard." He lay a hand on Joran’s shoulder, and Joran cringed. "I’d
like to help you."
A thousand things ran through Joran’s mind, any one of which he was positive
would get him killed instantly if he said it. Aerne went on. "I think you’ve
spent enough time belowstairs. You’ll return to your rooms this evening.
Consider it my birthday present to you."
This was so far beyond Joran’s comprehension he almost laughed aloud.
He wondered if Aerne expected him to believe this. What do you say to a trick?
"Thank you, sir," he said, figuring that was safe. He waited for the punchline.
There was none. "Go on," Aerne urged him. "Upstairs."
Joran’s body tightened. He didn’t understand this, didn’t know
how to react. He was confused, and it scared him. Aerne vicious he understood,
Aerne sarcastic and cruel he could easily accept, Aerne nice was outside any
realm of possibility. He took a step backward, another when Aerne didn’t
hit him. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" Someone, please
make this make sense.
Aerne shook his head. "Lillebroder, you must stop acting so servile. What would
our father say if he heard you?"
Are you my brother? Joran thought crazily. He took another step back.
"I’ll … just … I’ll go, then? Sir?" Get me away from
here; nothing makes sense anymore. Aerne nodded, dismissed him with a wave
of his hand. Joran backed toward the door, afraid to turn his back on his brother
who had suddenly lost his mind.
There was no dust in his room. He couldn’t stop focusing on it. How long
had he been gone? Yet there was no dust.
He looked around. He felt out of place in such a room, the lone person in a
vast echoing cavern. The ceilings were high, the bed was enormous, even the
night table seemed immense. What do I do here?
He could wash his face. Or shower, yes, that would be a good idea. He went
into the bathroom.
My God, it’s twice the size of our room, he thought. Had he really
lived here before?
He stripped, carefully folding his suit. It had only arrived a few weeks ago;
it was so very nice to have good clothes that fit him. He didn’t want it
ruined.
He ducked under the heavy warm spray – oh God, this is good, this is
worth whatever’s going to happen later – and soaped up quickly,
rinsing off so he’d be able to spend the last two minutes relaxing under
the water. He stood, letting his mind drift. Two minutes went by. Ten. Fifteen.
He realized with a start that it wouldn’t shut off, that he could stand
under there all night and it would keep going. He slapped the control and stood
there shivering.
What the hell am I doing here?
There were pajamas in his armoire. He put them on and crawled into bed, balancing
near the edge. So much room was unfamiliar. He waited a few minutes longer,
until he remembered he had to turn out the lights himself. He gave the command
in a shaking voice, and the room plunged into darkness.
He curled into a ball, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. He wished
desperately to be back belowstairs, where things might be painful and horrible,
but where they at least made sense. This was insanity, this was beyond his ability
to cope.
Chapter 7
Joran came down early the next morning and took his usual place at the wall.
He wasn’t at all sure this was the right thing to do after last night,
but anxiety prodded him. What else would I do, have a seat? Unthinkable.
A rattle, a thump, and Lukas backed through the door, pulling the food cart
behind him. He turned; their eyes met. Joran couldn’t say anything, didn’t
know what to say. "Sir," he whispered, "I … "
"Good morning, Joran," said Aerne, breezing into the dining room. Joran’s
head snapped around, and Lukas became invisible.
"Good morning, sir," answered Joran uncertainly.
Aerne sighed and shook his head. "What did I tell you about that? Sit down."
Joran couldn’t take his eyes off his brother as he stepped forward; he
reached out and took a seat.
"I trust you slept well?" Aerne was only half paying attention as he opened
his datapad.
"Yes, si— um. Yes. Thank you."
"Good." Aerne reached out without looking, sipped at his coffee. Joran looked
down at his plate. It was full. His head shot up, but he didn’t look around.
A sense of wrongness stole over him. The coffee mug was full, and he gulped
at it, scalding his throat.
Breakfast was silent. Joran couldn’t eat much. He jiggled his leg nervously,
stopped when Aerne looked up and lifted an eyebrow. He pulled together all his
courage as Aerne lay down his napkin and pushed his chair back. "Excuse me—
uh, alderbroder?"
"Yes?" Aerne’s glance was distracted.
Joran ignored his surge of fright and managed to get the words out. "Could
I speak with you, please? When you’re available, I mean. If that’s
all right." Shut up.
Aerne checked his datapad. "You can have five minutes at three o’clock.
Will that be sufficient?"
"Yes, sir. I mean, yes. I think so. Thank you."
"Very well." Aerne made a notation, rose. Joran wanted to ask what he should
do until then, but thought better of it. He’d pushed it enough for one
morning. Aerne left, and Joran looked down at his plate. It was gone. He looked
up, and he was alone.
He stayed in his rooms. He felt uncomfortable, useless, but he wasn’t
about to venture angering anyone. He sat on the bed and waited. Belowstairs,
he would have finished the bathroom by now. He would have gone into the bedroom,
made up the beds, returned his pillow to his own cot …
What did Lukas think about what had happened?
Are you going to hate me now too? Please don’t, I can’t bear it.
He’d felt a slight lifting of the depression once he’d returned to
Lukas’s bed the week before. As if, now he’d accepted his fate, he
might be able to find some solace in his situation after all. He might not be
worthy of the position he’d once held, but couldn’t he at least take
comfort with another slave?
For whatever arcane reasons, Aerne had set him back in place. And now he was
sure he didn’t want to be here.
He pulled his knees to his chest and tried to contain his emotions. At one
minute till three he was at the library door, hoping Aerne was in a good mood.
He knocked and entered, forcing himself to keep his head up. Aerne was behind
the desk and motioned him in. He walked across the heavy carpet, his footfalls
deadened. Blood surged in his ears. He stopped at the chair. "May I sit?" he
asked.
Aerne waved a hand. "Please." Joran sat. "What did you want to see me about?"
Joran took a deep breath. Don’t piss out now. Hold yourself together.
"I wanted … " He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "I wanted to find
out the new rules."
"I’m afraid I don’t follow." And he looked as if he didn’t.
"Sir— Aerne, please." Joran tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.
"I don’t know why you’ve done this, but I’m not complaining or
asking for an explanation. You can do what you want, we both know that. I just—"
he swallowed again, "I just need to know what to do. What’s not allowed."
Aerne shrugged. "I hadn’t thought of anything, really. What kind of rules
were you thinking of?"
Joran clenched his hands. "Have you freed me?"
Aerne paused, shook his head. "No."
Joran nodded; he’d expected that. "Am I allowed outside?"
"Certainly, if you ask."
"Can I use the net?"
"No."
"Are the other slaves still above me?"
"I haven’t decided."
"Am I allowed to grow my hair again?"
"No."
"Why don’t you want me to call you ‘sir’ anymore?"
"I don’t find it necessary."
"What’s my work assignment?"
Aerne’s smile was brief. "Lillebroder, I can’t believe you’re
asking for work. You should have been sent belowstairs long ago."
"I’m sure you’re right." Joran was having difficulty hiding his frustration.
"What do you want me to do?" Don’t leave me hanging, brother, I can’t
handle this.
"What would you like to do?"
I’ve gotten awfully good at floors. "Does it matter?"
"Not really." Aerne considered him a moment, then nodded. "All right, Joran.
You’ll file and organize these until I hire a new assistant. And you’re
back on book processing, now I’ll be expanding the collection."
"Thank you." He ducked his head so Aerne couldn’t see the relief.
"You’re welcome. Your time is up; go upstairs. You’ll start work
tomorrow."
Joran nodded, holding back the automatic response. He stood and left the room,
feeling Aerne’s eyes on him.
It took several days to scrape up the courage to ask for permission to leave.
He didn’t want to anger his brother; he still felt too unsure of himself
to know where the boundaries were. But Aerne had said he was allowed out, if
he asked. It couldn’t hurt to ask if he could leave the grounds, too. All
Aerne could say was no.
He didn’t. He heard Joran’s request, thought for a second, and tossed
him a set of keys. "Be back before midnight." And then he turned his back, dismissing
him.
Joran turned the keys over in his hands. He hadn’t seen them in almost
a year. Not since before that first night everything had gone so horribly wrong.
"Thank you," he whispered. Sir. Aerne ignored him.
It was cold out. He hadn’t felt the wind in far too long, and it cut through
him sharply. He pulled his coat tightly around him, the velvet familiar yet
strange. He got into the aircar. It felt new. He wondered if anyone had driven
it since it had been taken away from him.
He backed it out and lifted off, flying downtown in a straight line. He still
remembered how.
De Underkant was unchanged. He parked the car in the street, avoiding the club’s
lot. He wasn’t sure how much money he had, but he didn’t want to chance
the humiliation of being unable to retrieve his vehicle. He sat there for a
minute. Two. Ten. He’d told himself over and over he was ready for this,
that they would be glad to see him, but sitting outside the club, he felt all
his rationalizations dry up and blow away.
He had changed. Had been changed. If it was obvious to him, to Aerne, it would
be obvious to everyone. They care about me, they won’t mind, he
told himself, but even he could hear how hollow his words were. They had no
idea what he’d done. What he’d proved himself to be. He had lived
a lie his entire life, believing it, and they had believed it too. What would
happen now that the truth was so clear?
I can’t go in there. Can’t risk it. I don’t want them to see.
But he was already moving, locking up the car, crunching across the snow to
the club’s entrance. Shimmering neon trickled down the street. He felt
a strange mixture of disquiet and anticipation rise in his throat, and he clutched
at his coat tightly as he entered the door and the throbbing beat hit him.
He shuffled toward the entrance, held out his hand to the scanner, and moved
to cross the threshold to the dance floor. But the light above the scanner flashed
orange, and his wrist was caught in a painful grip. "What the hell do you think
you’re doing, slave?" hissed the bouncer, his scowl dark as he ground the
bones of Joran’s wrist together.
The altercation caught the attention of others waiting for entry, who stared,
riveted. Joran groaned. "Ow … ow, it hurts, please … "
"Please what, you little shit? Slaves aren’t allowed in here. Does your
owner know where you are?" He yanked on Joran’s wrist hard. Joran grimaced.
"He said I could come – he said it was all right. Oh God—" this as
the bouncer twisted his arm up behind his back "—Please, I’m sorry,
I’ll go, I didn’t know, please just let me go, sir, I’ll leave
right away … "
"Don’t let me catch you back here," growled the bouncer. "Citizens only,
you got that? I see you again, I’m having you arrested." He released Joran’s
arm, and Joran nodded frantically as he backed away.
"Yes, sir, I understand, thank you, sir." He fled through the growing crowd,
up the stairs and out into the street, flung himself into his aircar, gasping.
He shook hard, holding back tears by sheer will. Oh God, oh my God, I should
have known. What else could I expect? I can’t go back. There is no place
else for me. There’s only one place I can go.
He trembled as he lifted off and headed back for home.
Chapter 8
Laughter greeted Joran as he entered the grand hall. Lights blazed in the main
sitting room; Aerne was entertaining again. Joran slunk down the hall. He wanted
to hide, to find a place that would enclose him in dark arms and keep him safe.
But there was no such place, was there? Not for him. What the hell am I,
anyway?
"Joran!" The voice arrested him as he passed the doorway to the sitting room.
"Come here for a moment."
He couldn’t disobey an order, not from that voice. He entered, his step
uncertain. Aerne was lounging on a sofa, flushed, in obvious good humor. Richilde
nipped at his ear and smiled up at Joran. "Aerne, he is alive."
"Yes, so I told you," Aerne said indolently. "Home so early, lillebroder?"
Joran was distracted by Emil and Kjell, on the floor doing more than friendly
embracing. "I— yes, I didn’t want to stay out late. I was … "
he blinked as the two men separated, revealing Elisabet between them, " …
cold."
"Oh, poor boy," Marya purred, handing him a glass of champagne. "Here, this
will warm you up."
He stared at her, unable even to attempt good manners. What? He reached
out and took the glass. "Thank you," he said cautiously. Am I allowed to
talk to you? He shivered, not from cold this time.
"Come in, sit down," urged Bastien, shifting his long legs from the loveseat.
"Talk with us a while. Your brother ceased to be entertaining hours ago." He
grinned, and Aerne smiled back at him. Joran sat down, eyes on Aerne, prepared
to jump up and run out of there if he was wrong. But Aerne’s attention
had turned to Richilde again, who had her hands inside his shirt, petting his
chest. "You little tart," he murmured, seizing her hands, and she laughed again.
"Joran, what have you been up to?" asked Elisabet as she sat up and stretched,
fully nude. Joran couldn’t speak. Breasts. My God, they do exist. He
felt himself growing hard, entranced by his first sight of a woman’s body
in over a year. Marya poked him, breaking the spell. "Well?"
"Uh." Joran struggled to find words. "Not much, really. I’ve been helping
Aerne with some things." Yes, very articulate. What next, ‘fire good’?
He took a swift gulp of champagne and tore his gaze from Elisabet, who was
stroking Kjell’s back. "I’ve also been working on some … other
things." Oh, well done there. He shut up and drank. Marya took his glass,
poured him some more.
"Sounds fascinating," she murmured and licked his ear as she handed him the
glass. He turned red. What the hell is happening? He looked at Aerne
in desperation for some clue as to how to behave, but Aerne was on his back
on the sofa, succumbed to the joint caress of Richilde and Zachris. Joran looked
down and focused on the champagne. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t the
sex that made him so uncomfortable, that he and his friends had done all this
and more, but it had been so long ago …
And to see Aerne this way, relaxed and open, golden hair spilling down the
sofa to brush the floor, smiling as he reached up to brush a strand of Zachris’s
hair out of his eyes, the lights blurring around both of them as Zachris leaned
in for a kiss …
He blinked, but the blur didn’t dissolve. He could feel Marya’s lips
on his neck, her breath hot on his skin, so very hot, and he moaned before he
could stop himself. She giggled, her tongue tickling his skin. "Why is your
hair so short?" she breathed into his ear. Her tongue curled up and flicked
his earlobe. He shivered and tried to speak. "I … what are you … oh
my God … "
Through the haze, he saw Kjell uncoil from the floor. Joran closed his eyes
as faintness swept him. He tried to stand, tried to excuse himself— "I’m
sorry, I’m not feeling … very well … " His legs collapsed under
him, and the champagne flute tumbled from his powerless grasp. Marya caught
him before he hit the floor.
"I think he’s ready," she said, smiling up at Kjell. Joran struggled to
get up. Something had gone wrong with his legs … he was dizzy and they
wouldn’t work … and Kjell was looming over him and he shrank back,
weirdly threatened … lights going dim and he couldn’t tell if it was
his eyes or not … and Kjell hauled him up, Bastien on the other side …
"It’s all right, Joran, just relax and it’ll be fine … " dragging
him across the room, away from the door, the door slamming shut with a hollow
thud … "Please, I don’t feel well, let me go to bed … " slaves
aren’t allowed in here … damask and silk and flowers, flowers
in the dead of winter … boneless arms and legs, mind unstrung … "You’ll
be fine in a moment, just relax … " the table had a vase, what happened
to the vase? … does your owner know where you are? … hot suddenly,
so hot in here he felt cold inside … no, cold outside … where did
my clothes go? I had shoes on … and it was warm, the polished wood
of the table, and he rested his cheek on it as he tried to understand how he
got there … "Don’t scratch the legs, I just had that restored …
" something tightening around his wrist, his arm, and he struggled away from
it … what’s happening don’t hurt me I did what you said I
drank it what are you doing to me … "It’s silk, it’s not
going to scratch anything, you have more to fear from his fingernails …
" tightening around his ankles and up his legs, legs spread, and he realized
where he was and what was happening …
Oh God no why why why would you do this?
I thought I might be forgiven …
Struggling, but he was tied down tightly and the scent of wood polish filled
his head … "You were right, Kjell, this is vastly more entertaining …
" tears then, hot tears spilling onto the table as he pleaded with them …
"Don’t, oh God, please don’t, please … " so weak, so weak …
"It’s your house, Aerne, would you like to go first?" … oh God
don’t let me throw up they’ll never forgive me for that …
"Kjell, that’s disgusting, he’s my brother for God’s sake …
" firelight flickering on the one wall he could see … "Feel free to enjoy
yourself, though … " shadows everywhere … the face of a woman in front
of him, a beautiful woman, Marya’s tongue licking up the side of his face
and plunging into his mouth, filling it at the same time something hard plunged
into him, behind him, filling him, hurting … opening his mouth to scream,
but the scream was swallowed in Marya’s kiss … friction inside him
… what did I do what am I being punished for now? … groans
behind him, sounds he wasn’t making, swearing and sobbing he realized was
coming from his own mouth … Marya, where did she go? … thrusts harder
and harder and a shout and a sudden feeling of emptiness … "Where’s
your stamina gone, Bastien? Here, let me show you how it’s done …
" oh no oh no oh no please let me up now … another push, and it
hurt more, and he moaned in pain, jerking at the ropes but unable to escape
the weight above him, crushing him … "Hold still, gosse, you’re only
wearing yourself out … " hot shame as laughter coursed around him …
humiliation as the friction built and his own body responded … no don’t
this is not what I want never what I wanted it never matters what I want
… another ejaculation, and another body behind him, and Richilde in front
of him, nuzzling him, biting his lips and his tongue and his ears, licking tears
from his face as he wept … "What’s wrong, Joran? We thought you’d
be used to this by now … " is this what Lukas thought I would do to
him? He was wrong … gasping for breath, nose clogged from crying, another
gasp as someone squeezed his balls and he clenched tightly … "Oh Aerne,
he’s good, he’s lovely, it feels so good … " squeezing, and thrusting,
and his own horrible climax, spurting between his hips and the table …
"Little slut, you like this, don’t you?" … suddenly empty, a slap
across his buttocks, another one, harder … no no, Rurik, please, no,
I don’t … "Tell me you like it … " another slap, stinging,
his face wet and sticky … please I don’t I swear … "I
like it, sir … " I would never have done this to you … another
body, third, fourth, fifth? … when is it Egon’s turn? …
pain, only pain, no more shameful pleasure, only friction and chafing and the
salt sting of their come in the raw places … "I’m sorry, sir, I’ll
never speak again, I didn’t mean to say anything to her … " don’t
hurt me any more, Lukas, I’ll be good, I’ll make you happy …
"It was my fault, I’m so sorry, I tried, I tried so hard … " slamming
into him as the world blew apart in an explosion of pain and bright light …
I’m sorry, Lukas, I’ll behave, you’ll be so pleased with me,
you’ll be proud of me, I’ve learned my lesson and you’ll never
have to do this again …
Quiet.
Light.
Cool gray walls.
Warm wood.
So quiet.
"They had a hell of a party, didn’t they?"
"We have two hours to get it clean; the Chairman wants the room ready for a
meeting this morning."
"God, you can smell the sex in here."
"Bet you wish you’d been invited."
"Do me a favor; I don’t need to be mauled any further. Rurik’s been
insatiable."
"Broken glass over here, careful."
"They ground something into the carpet. Hand me the steam brush, will you?"
"Someone forgot their clothes! Hee!"
"Why’s the tablecloth over here?"
Silence.
"Christ."
"Oh my God."
"Go get Halvar."
"How long has he been here?"
"I don’t know, when did they leave?"
"Hours ago, I think."
"Shit."
"Joran, can you hear me?"
"His eyes are open."
"I can see that, idiot. Joran?"
"Help me get the ropes off."
"Oh God, look at his legs, there’s blood."
"Get the ropes off, then we’ll talk about the blood."
"The knot’s too tight, I can’t get it undone."
"Ah no, look at the marks. They didn’t have to tie him so tight."
"His hands are freezing."
"Joran, can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand?"
"His pupils are huge, I think they drugged him."
"They didn’t have to do that."
"I don’t think that was the point."
"Joran? Please say something. Blink. Please."
"At least he’s breathing."
"Out of the way, girls."
"Oh sir, thank God. He hasn’t moved. I think he’s hurt."
"There’s blood, sir."
"We can’t get the ropes off his legs."
"Lukas, get something to cut these."
"At once, sir."
"Joran? Answer me."
"Sir, we tried, he’s completely gone."
"Is he going to die, sir?"
"Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not, is he, sir?"
"Lukas, good. Cut these off. Be careful of the table."
"Sir."
"Let’s get him upstairs. Lukas, take the left arm, I’ve got the right."
"Yes, sir."
"Take care of the mess, girls. The Chairman’s meeting is scheduled for
eight o’clock sharp."
"Yes, sir."
He was moving. It hurt.
"Careful, we don’t know what kind of damage they did."
"Yes, sir."
Scenes changed around him, flowed one into another into another. He saw milky
walls, a dark room, berylline curtains.
"Put him facedown. I want to check him."
Fingers probed, and the pain made him flinch slightly.
"Joran? Did you feel that? Are you awake?"
"I’m going to call the doctor. Stay with him."
"Yes, sir. Joran, the doctor is coming. You’ll be fine."
I will never be fine.
After the doctor left, there was silence.
"Joran? Come on, gosse, say something. You always talk in bed."
Silence.
"Come on, don’t you have any questions for me? You like to ask questions.
I’ll answer anything you want to ask."
Silence.
A sigh. "You’ve turned into pretty boring company, you know. Only a few
days gone and already you’ve turned dull."
Silence.
"Can you at least squeeze my hand? Let me know you’re alive in there somewhere?"
Silence.
"Ah, come on, gosse."
Silence.
Another sigh. "Fine, suit yourself."
A question.
"I can’t be like Rurik, though. I can’t just talk to entertain myself."
I have a question.
"I need you to do that for me."
Question
"Sir?" Voice hoarse from screaming.
"Joran." Intense relief in Lukas’s voice. "Don’t worry, you’re
going to be okay."
"Why?"
"Why are you going to be okay? The doctor said … " But that was too much
for Joran to process. He closed his eyes.
"Oh, gosse." Lukas rested a hand gently on his back. "It’s going to be
all right. Just rest. I’m right here, don’t worry. It’s all going
to be fine."
Joran found the words, tried to order them in his mind. "Why did he?"
"Take your time. Why did who?"
"Why did he … pretend. To be so nice."
"The Chairman?"
"He didn’t have to."
Lukas smoothed his hair softly. "No, he didn’t."
"He could have told me to. I would have."
"I know, Joran. You’re a good boy, you do as you’re told."
"He didn’t have to drug me."
"I know."
"Why did he tie me up?"
"I don’t know."
"He didn’t have to trick me." His eyes closed again on hot tears. "I wish
he’d just told me."
"I know." Lukas sighed. "Gosse, understand … he doesn’t have to explain—"
"I know!" Joran’s voice came out bitterly harsh. "If nothing else, I think
I’ve learned that."
They stayed there together, neither speaking, each thinking his separate thoughts.
The voices were low, but they half-woke Joran from his shallow sleep. "What
did the Chairman say?" Lukas’s voice.
Rurik’s. "Nothing at all. Not a word. I couldn’t ask."
"No, of course not."
"Is he going to be all right?" That was Egon.
"I think so." Lukas sounded tired. "Physically."
Rurik made a disgusted noise. "Poor bastard."
"He’ll recover." Egon’s voice was less than assured. "He’s young.
Besides, we’ve seen this happen before."
"To people who knew what was coming," muttered Rurik.
"I don’t know what you’re so upset about. You did the same thing."
"So did you!"
"You enjoyed it."
"I didn’t—" Rurik stopped. "I didn’t know him so well then …
"
There was quiet, a long, awkward pause.
"Well, he wasn’t one of us, was he? And anyway, I wasn’t so cruel."
No one said a word.
"I wasn’t." Uncertainty, and worry. "Not like they were. I— oh, God."
There was a weight of understanding in those words. "I wish I hadn’t."
"I think the drugs took some of the edge off this time," said Lukas. "Still."
No one spoke. Joran felt himself hazily slipping away.
"This sort of thing shouldn’t happen … "
Chapter 9
"Sir, please wake up."
Joran stirred. Everything ached. What was that? It came again. "Sir.
Wake up, please. It’s nearly time for breakfast."
Joran opened his eyes, instinctively obeying. And nearly jumped out of the
bed. There was Lukas, in full uniform, standing beside his bed, a formal, distant
expression on his face. Their eyes met, and Lukas’s held nothing but sedate
inquiry. "Will you be dressing for the outdoors, sir?"
Joran backed up against the headboard, horrified. "Sir, what are you doing?"
God, what did I do now? He swallowed sickness and looked with incredulity
at the fine cotton dress shirt Lukas held.
"The Chairman has returned me to my former duties," Lukas said, as if this
was all to be expected. "He requests that you join him for breakfast, sir. There
is half an hour remaining before that time." He lifted the shirt slightly. "Would
you prefer something else, sir?"
Joran closed his eyes, opened them again. Lukas was still there. He gripped
his hands together to stop them from shaking. "Sir. Please stop it. I don’t
know what’s happening, but I can’t handle this … " His voice
trailed off.
Lukas never changed expression. "I would be happy to select another outfit,
sir, if you prefer—"
"No!" Joran leaped out of the bed, barely feeling the ache radiating through
his midsection in his flush of revulsion. "Sir, stop it. Please. This
is. Just. Wrong." His voice caught and he flushed. "I’m sorry," he continued
in a more level tone, "I don’t mean to interrupt. But if this is some bizarre
form of punishment, please tell me. You’ve never—" he swallowed "—never
been unnecessarily cruel to me. Please don’t start now, not after yesterday,
sir, please … "
Lukas covered the distance between them in two quick strides, stopping mere
inches from Joran. He lowered his head, looking directly into Joran’s eyes.
"Sir," he said, every word patient, "the Chairman. Has returned me to my former
duties." His eyes flicked to the corner of the ceiling where the communication
speaker hid. "And he would like you to join him at breakfast." He looked at
Joran again, and his expression behind the glasses was one of authority, of
resignation and sadness. He reached a hand up slowly and touched Joran’s
hair. "If you are not to be late, sir, you should dress now."
Joran shuddered and pressed his face into Lukas’s palm. His voice cracked
with hesitation. "Yes, si— yes. All right." He didn’t know why Aerne
had ordered this, whether he thought it would be a kindness or whether he’d
hit on a more refined form of torture. A slave couldn’t ever ask why. The
only recourse was obedience. He reached out for the shirt and allowed Lukas
to help him into it.
Lukas disappeared after Joran was dressed, and Joran watched him leave with
longing eyes. Things just kept getting stranger, and with each new twist Joran’s
confusion and anxiety grew. How could he figure out how to behave when the rules
could change so suddenly? He wondered if Aerne had literally gone mad. To
have me raped last night, and bowed to this morning … does he think the
one makes up for the other? Does he understand what he’s doing to me? If
he keeps it up, I’ll be the one going mad …
Breakfast was as it had been the last few days, except for the pain when Joran
took his seat. He tried to ignore it as he ignored the slaves serving him his
breakfast, focusing instead on the candles in the middle of the long table.
He concentrated on the flames, letting his mind drift, until he realized with
a start Aerne had entered and was speaking to him.
"I’m sorry? I wasn’t paying attention."
Aerne lifted his eyebrows. "I asked after your health. If you’re feeling
unwell, you may rest today."
The utter absurdity of this statement was more than Joran could take. If
I’m feeling unwell. Good God.
His psyche finally reached its saturation point. His fear, his confusion, his
desperation vanished as if he’d never suffered them in his life. He felt
he could never be surprised by anything again. All the terror, all the anguish
had been caused by a belief that the worst could somehow be avoided, and now
he knew – knew – that was impossible. Struggles were pointless
and accomplished nothing; he had no desire to struggle anymore, not in words,
not in feelings. Aerne would do what he would do, that was all there was to
it, and Joran would accept it.
"I’m fine, thank you, alderbroder," he answered. "As long as I’m
not too active, I should have no trouble with work today." Whatever you want,
sir. Tell me what it is, I’ll do it.
Aerne looked him over critically. "I think not. I’d prefer you to spend
the day upstairs. You may take your meals in your room."
Whatever you want, sir. "All right. Thank you." He began to eat.
He forced himself to withstand the unsettled feeling as Lukas continued to
serve him. It was a farce, of course; he knew he deserved no such honor, but
Lukas behaved with perfect form, and Joran felt he could do no less. He’d
understood Lukas’s implied order and was determined to obey. He wished
they could drop the pretense and speak as they used to, but Lukas was right:
it was entirely probable Aerne was listening, and Lukas would be the one to
suffer for any perceived disrespect.
He spent as much time as possible at his assignments. Aerne had grown increasingly
busy in the last year, and his prior assistant had quit a month before, giving
no notice. Joran had much to do to catch up with the amount of work that had
been left undone. The assistant had not been diligent.
Joran worked every day from after breakfast until Aerne sent him to bed at
night. He was given a restricted account on the communicat, with a warning that
any attempt to subvert it would be detected and punished severely. He understood
and stayed within the allowed limits. Work was a relief; it helped immensely
to leave his own problems alone and focus on things that had nothing to do with
him. Classifying and filing reports and documents, ordering and processing books
– Aerne’s library was growing, and Joran was able to look with satisfaction
at the organization he’d wrought on the shelves. The masses of files Aerne
had shoved at him were slowly taking on a semblance of neatness as well. It
felt good, very good, to bring order from chaos.
At first he ignored Aerne’s mutterings from his desk. It had nothing to
do with his work, and he was able to push it into the background as he concentrated
on matters closer at hand. But when Aerne shouted and slapped the communicat,
Joran jerked his head up, alarmed.
"Damn you," growled Aerne, staring at the communicat, "and damn all your heirs
and assigns, and damn me for ever asking your opinion in the first place."
Joran kept quiet, but couldn’t help staring warily at his brother, and
Aerne felt it and looked up, scowling. Joran dropped his eyes and turned away.
Don’t get him angry at you too. Just keep your mind on your work.
"Bastien." Aerne’s voice was flat and tired. Joran held still. "He’s
rejected yet another draft. I don’t know what the bastard wants from me;
he says he’s helping, but I’m more confused now than when I started.
‘Subtlety,’ he says. If I’m any more damn subtle, I won’t
be saying a word." He sighed. "Never mind. Go back to work."
Joran sorted and filed as quietly as he could, hoping to avoid an outburst
aimed at him next. His months of service training held – Aerne seemed to
forget he was there, and though there were further dark mutterings from his
direction, there was no more shouting.
Several days later, Joran returned from a trip to the bathroom to find Aerne’s
desk empty, and the communicat lit. His heart thudded painfully at this unexpected
opportunity. He wouldn’t have much time to exploit it –
Exploit it? How? He could send a message, but to whom? He’d long ago abandoned
the idea of rescue. Aerne owned him in law, and anyone who helped him would
be open to charges of theft. He’d known that from the beginning. And he
couldn’t turn to his friends anymore, now he understood what he was. No.
This was no opportunity.
His eyes passed idly over the screen. –cannot ignore
the prospects inherent in this new market. We will need to act aggressively
and decisively in order to expand our current market share, and
–
Joran frowned at the words and touched a section to highlight it. "Delete ‘aggressively,’
replace with—"
"End." Aerne’s voice was icy, his face as stone as he stood in the doorway.
Joran jerked back from the communicat as if it’d zapped him. Aerne stalked
into the room, and Joran took another step back. "I’d better hear a very
convincing explanation, Joran," said Aerne. "Start talking."
Idiot, Joran castigated himself. You’re going to be across the
desk screaming in two seconds, if you’re lucky – no, shut up, never
mind, he’ll do what he’ll do, and you’ll get over it. He
took a deep breath. "Firmly."
Aerne raised an eyebrow. Joran’s explanation was reluctant. "You said
‘aggressively’ there, and I thought ‘firmly’ might be more
subtle like Bastien wanted. It sounds like you’re already in control, not
seeking it like ‘aggressively’ sounds. So you sound more assured,
which is what you want. I thought." He sighed. "Never mind. I apologize. I shouldn’t
have touched it. It was just an idea I— really, I’m very sorry." He
waited, eyes down, for the order to strip, but it didn’t come, and he looked
up to see Aerne’s thoughtful eyes on him.
"Firmly. You honestly think that’s better?" Aerne’s tone was dispassionate,
underlaid with a hint of surprise.
"I do, si— I do. Yes."
Aerne nodded and waved a hand at Joran’s table. "I believe you have work
still to do."
Yes, sir. Joran turned back to his stack of files, amazed and thankful
and puzzled all at the same time. How it’d turned out all right he didn’t
know, but somehow Aerne wasn’t angry. The pounding in his chest subsided.
By two that morning, Joran had given up on sleep. He didn’t know what
made him so restless, but he couldn’t lie there any longer. He got up,
slid on a pair of shoes, and opened his door noiselessly. Aerne hadn’t
forbidden him to leave the room at night, but Joran was still nervous about
doing anything unexpected. I wish there were more rules. How can I keep out
of trouble if I don’t know what’s not allowed?
The house looked different at night. Recessed lights cast a dim glow on corners
and steps, throwing twisted shadows against walls. Knobs swelled to many times
their size; decorative carvings were distorted into hideous shapes. The rooms
he passed through seemed cavernous, and he tiptoed as if trying to avoid waking
the slumbering beasts that must be within.
As he wandered, so did his thoughts. It’s a relief not to be beaten.
But it almost makes everything worse. I don’t understand what’s punishable
anymore.
I did exactly as I was told, and he had me raped.
I invaded his business, and he let me go.
I’m still his slave. I still have to obey him.
But he won’t let me call him ‘sir.’ And he has me eat with him.
What am I?
What is he?
My master?
My brother?
In his wanderings, he didn’t notice where he was going until he was almost
there. He’d descended the stairs, and the kitchen doors stood before him.
Before he could consider whether he should be there, he pushed the doors open
and stepped inside.
Joran stood in the middle of the cold stone floor, breathing in the leftover
scents of bread baking, soap, coffee, and spices. He trailed a hand along the
warmth of the oven door, the chill of the sink, the smoothness of the wooden
countertop. He stopped, ran a finger along a deep scar that marred the counter.
It brought that night back to him in vivid flashes – the sick terror he’d
felt as Aerne dragged him by his hair, the shock of seeing his death before
him, the shudder of the wood beneath his head as Aerne’s cleaver severed
not his head but his braid … He found he was shaking, and willed himself
to stop. It was over, long over, and he’d survived. Thrived, his
mind whispered, and he shook his head to clear it of that thought. No one thrived
on fear and abuse. The slaves hadn’t wanted to, but they had hurt him physically
and mentally, knowing how it would feel, knowing what it would do to him.
They gave you pain. But they gave you structure as well. You learned things;
you accomplished things. Proper table service may not be equivalent to wiping
out war, but it’s more than you’d ever done before.
They’d raped him. Again and again.
They did it to break you, to keep you here. What choice was there? Would you
rather have been sold?
They’d beaten him more times than he could count.
Discipline is not always abuse.
They’d cut him off from all sources of comfort.
Not all.
He twisted his hands together, rubbing them up his arms as he remembered lying
with Lukas, snuggled against the man’s chest, safe in the enclosure of
his arms. Lukas had held him when he cried, hadn’t ridiculed him for his
fall, had trained him patiently until he was skilled enough to serve the Chairman
without fear, securing a place in the household.
Lukas had been there to cut the ropes and help Halvar carry Joran to his room.
Lukas had stayed with him, stroking his hair, trying his best to help Joran
overcome yet another trauma.
Lukas didn’t hate him. Had never hated him.
Maybe Lukas had loved—
Joran jumped as a shape loomed before him from the darkness. "Sir," said a
familiar voice, "is there something I can help you with?"
Oh God, Halvar. How did he know I was here? "No, si— no," stammered
Joran, "no, there’s nothing, I just couldn’t sleep."
"I see." Halvar’s voice gave nothing away. "In that case … "
"You think I should go," finished Joran. "You’re right. I don’t want
to get anyone in trouble. I’m sorry, sir." He gave up on trying to avoid
the honorific; it was even harder leaving it off with Halvar than it was with
Aerne.
Halvar nodded in the dim light, and his hand covered Joran’s and pressed
gently. "I think it would be for the best."
Joran choked on a laugh that threatened to turn into a sob. "Right. Yes. Thank
you, sir." He withdrew his hand from under Halvar’s and left the kitchen,
and Halvar watched him go with veiled eyes.
Chapter 10
Joran rested his head in his hands for a moment after he sent off the order.
The communicat blinked at him, waiting for instructions. His head hurt. Only
a week left. And so much still to do … He shook his head to clear it
and called up his list of tasks. Catering taken care of. Paper copies of
the speech are at the printer. Seating assignments, oh joy, that’s going
to be a mess. I’ll be up half the night. Not that that would be any
different than the last two weeks.
He was deep into consideration over precedence of seating when Aerne’s
voice made him jump. "Joran! Wake up, for God’s sake, I’ve been calling
you for five minutes."
"I’m sorry, alderbroder, I was just thinking." Joran rubbed aching eyes.
"Pull your head out of that for a minute," said Aerne, sounding mildly annoyed.
"Pay attention. Have you finished everything else?"
"Everything but the seating and the final contracts for the hired staff."
"Good. Keep the waitstaff for the banquet, but cancel everyone else. We’ll
let the chauffeurs take care of their own cars, and I want my staff there for
greeting and cocktails." A sharp look in Joran’s direction. "That includes
you. Halvar will be in charge of the operation."
The news hit Joran hard; it wasn’t painful, but it was unexpected. "I
… thought you wanted me to assist you." I thought we were getting along.
"You’ll assist me by doing as you’re told." Aerne didn’t look
at him, but his tone was stern. "Do you have any complaints?"
"No," Joran mumbled, "no, of course not." He’ll do what he’ll
do. Accept it and be glad it’s nothing worse.
But it did seem worse on the day of the meeting. Joran joined the abovestairs
slaves: Lukas, Rurik, Egon, the three maids whose names he still didn’t
know, and they waited in silence for Halvar to address them. Everyone snuck
looks at Joran. He didn’t meet their eyes, feeling more out of place than
he ever had.
Halvar looked older, tired, the lines in his face deeper. He glanced at each
of them individually. "I trust I don’t need to inform you how important
this day is? Good. No mistakes; I expect absolute perfection from each of you.
Lukas, Rurik, Egon, you will be passing the appetizers. For this, you are expected
to make yourselves known, rather than maintaining table silence. Speak only
to offer the food, or when spoken to." He turned to the girls. "You three will
serve the wine. The same goes for you: offer it to the guests, do not wait to
be asked." Finally, his eyes met Joran’s. "Joran, you will be stationed
with me. I will greet guests as they arrive, and you will take and store their
coats. Thank them when they give you their coats, otherwise you are not to speak."
He raised his voice. "I have the utmost confidence in all of you. I’m sure
you will each display the highest level of service. Please go to your stations;
the guests will begin arriving before long."
Joran followed Halvar to the front door. He tugged self-consciously on his
jacket; he hadn’t worn his uniform since Aerne had put him back in his
suite two months before. He forced himself to stop twitching, worried he might
attract Halvar’s attention. Halvar might or might not be under orders to
punish him, but he didn’t want to find out.
He concentrated on his nails. He’d seen the invitation list. He knew the
people who were coming. He’d once been one of them. They had been at parties,
at concerts, at theaters, all there to see and be seen, to make the social circuit.
Ladies had cooed over him when he was a child— Oh isn’t he a doll,
Sten, he’s absolutely adorable – and he’d played with their
children, shared treats with them, become friends and more as they grew together.
They had accepted him as one of them, and he’d thought he was.
As bad as he thought the meeting at De Underkant might be, this was going to
be far worse. The investors would be here, would see him bow to them, thanking
them for the honor of carrying their coats to the closets. The story would spread
throughout the whole of exek society before the morning. He closed his eyes
against a surge of humiliation. He’d thought he was used to it, to being
reminded over and over that he was not his father’s son but a slave’s
bastard. He’d thought it wouldn’t hurt anymore. It did.
Joran held himself rigid as the first guests arrived. He noted who the woman
was, but kept his eyes down as they handed him their coats while he murmured
his thanks. He escaped to the closet and hung them up, drawing deep breaths.
She hadn’t noticed him; he’d been as invisible as any other slave,
for all he’d once slapped her sister’s face. He hoped she didn’t
remember that.
More guests arrived, and his thanks were barely audible as he ran back and
forth to the closet. Torturous hope grew in his chest, hope that no one would
notice him, and if they did, that they wouldn’t connect him with the young
man who used to live here.
That hope was demolished as his eyes accidentally met those of Rasmus Dannevig
and saw startled recognition there. Joran let his eyes fall at once; his throat
closed and he couldn’t get a word out as he took Rasmus’s coat. He
bowed and retreated, unable to miss the startled whisper, "Darling, wasn’t
that Joran?"
He pressed his face against the closet wall. God. Rasmus, one of his father’s
oldest friends, a man who’d been at every family party and gathering since
before he was born. Joran still had the jade carving Rasmus had given him for
his thirteenth birthday.
Straighten up and get back there. You have work to do. Fall apart later.
He moved back to stand at Halvar’s shoulder. Halvar lifted an eyebrow,
but Joran’s mask was in place. Control. Control. Control. He accepted
another coat. And another. And another. Ignored the faces of those who recognized
him. I’m just another slave. Nobody. Go away. He took the coats,
thanked the guests, put them away, came back, again and again, shutting all
the feelings into a tiny room in his mind and closing it off. The guests were
arriving in number now, and it took all his concentration to keep up with them.
When the flow stopped for a moment, he stood at Halvar’s shoulder and
took a deep breath. This is fine. It’s all okay. He glanced through
the front windows, saw the old-fashioned motorcar come up the drive, and his
heart dropped straight through the floor.
Kristian.
Without thinking, he seized Halvar’s sleeve. The Supervisor turned to
him, but before he could speak, Joran whispered, "Sir. I need to change assignments,
immediately. Please. Someone’s coming, there’ll be a scene …
"
Halvar took no time at all to consider. "Find Rurik, tell him to come here."
Joran faded back into a hallway and raced to the ballroom’s atrium. His
heart thudded, sending surges throughout his body. Can’t let him see
me, not like this. It’ll be bad. Oh God, don’t let him see me.
Joran darted out from behind a bronze sculpture and pulled Rurik away from
the knot of guests he was about to approach. Rurik swung around. "Gosse, what
the hell are you doing?" he hissed.
"Halvar says to switch, sir," Joran gasped. "He wants you there, right now."
Rurik cursed softly and thrust the tray into Joran’s hands. "Spill anything
and I’ll kill you." He took off in a soundless glide.
Joran clutched the tray and tried to control his breathing. If he comes
in here, I can see him coming. I can avoid him. He won’t know I was here.
He stepped up to the guests Rurik had left. "Would you like something, sir?"
He circulated through the crowd. Quietly. Unobtrusively. Offering his tray
when it seemed appropriate. At first it was just whispers, and he pretended
to himself not to hear them. They became louder, a low buzz of talk. He caught
snatches as he turned away to serve the next guests:
" … can’t be him … "
"Look at the eyes, it’s got to be … "
" … thought he’d left the country … "
" … but no one’s seen him in months."
"He’s thinner, his hair is shorter, but … "
"That rumor was true, then."
" … that has to be him."
"What did you hear?"
"Zachris told us a few weeks ago … "
Joran held his tray out to a gathering of young aristos. He knew them. They
knew him. They said not a word, and neither did he.
" … been keeping him as a sextoy … "
"I didn’t believe him, you know how Kjell is … "
" … all four of them … "
"Aerne offered him up, and they took … "
" … thought Sten had taken care of that long ago, but apparently not."
" … never thought Aerne would be that tough … "
"He seemed so quiet … "
It was like a dream, so horrible and so quiet and so inevitable; he drifted
through the party, face frozen, and it seemed only natural that when he turned,
Kristian’s face was before him.
Kristian was motionless, his blue eyes wide, lips slightly parted. The sound
of the room seemed to slip away. There was no room for anything in Joran’s
mind other than those eyes, those lips that had last kissed him over a year
ago, now separated from him by a chasm of status. He looked down and tried to
turn away, but Kristian grabbed his arm.
"Joran, come with me." His voice was clear and unyielding, and heads in the
vicinity swiveled. No one had expected this level of entertainment. Joran flinched
back from Kristian, shook his head. Don’t do this to me, goddamn it,
Kristian, don’t make me do this!
"Sir, I’m sorry, I’m expected to serve before the meeting—"
"I don’t give a damn what you’re expected to do, we’re leaving."
Kristian’s voice had risen, and he pulled at Joran’s arm. Joran pulled
back.
"I’m sorry, sir, I’m not able to leave right now." He looked around
in panic. The aristo faces around him were fascinated. "Sir, please let me go,
I need to go." He saw Lukas across the room, saw the sudden concern on Lukas’s
face as he read and understood the situation.
"Stop it!" Kristian sounded near to hysterics. "Goddamn it, Joran, what the
fuck is wrong with you? Just come with me!" He yanked, and half the hors d’oeuvres
from Joran’s tray flew off, scattering across the hardwood floor.
Joran held back tears of anger and humiliation. This was impossible, he couldn’t
find a way out of this, not with Kristian prepared to begin screaming at any
second. Kristian hauled on his arm, and he suppressed a yell, and Lukas appeared
like a quiet, black-clad avenging angel, eyes burning and mouth in a tight line.
"Excuse me, sir," he said in a low, firm voice, "Chairman Wikmann has requested
Joran’s presence. If you will excuse us, please." He disengaged Kristian’s
fingers and pulled Joran and his tray through the crowd that backed away from
them in haste, opening a path straight to Aerne.
Lukas’s hand was painful on Joran’s arm, and Joran tried not to spill
any more appetizers on the way. Aerne broke off his conversation and looked
at them in surprise. "Ah, Joran. Very good." Lukas vanished into the crowd.
"I wanted one of these," Aerne continued, picking up a canape and taking a bite.
"Go ahead, I’m sure the others would like some as well."
Joran turned to Rasmus, standing nearby. "May I offer you something, sir?"
Rasmus shook his head, his eyes narrowed. Joran swallowed and offered the tray
to the other guests in turn. No one else spoke. Aerne noticed Rasmus’s
glass. "My dear Rasmus, you’ve no wine. Joran, fetch him some at once."
"Yes, sir." Joran went in search of the wine, smarting under the gazes of the
exeks he left behind. The room in his mind where he’d stuffed all his feelings
was shuddering, the emotions clamoring to be let out, but he barred the door
and kept his face blank. "The facilities are down that hall, madame," he answered
a woman. He swiped a wineglass from a tray and took it back to where the exeks
were waiting.
"Your wine, sir," he offered. Rasmus took it and turned from him. "Aerne,"
he said, "I do hope you intend to answer Greverud’s accusations in your
speech. She’s been very forceful in the last few days; she may call for
your removal soon."
"Helge Greverud is no longer a concern," Aerne said, quiet confidence in every
line of his body. "I spoke with her last night, and she plans to support my
proposal."
As the business discussion continued, Joran stepped back into the crowd. He
couldn’t see Kristian anywhere. He suddenly felt very tired, but he straightened
his back and headed for the caterer to refill his tray.
Chapter 11
When the last guest had filed into the ballroom for the meeting, the slaves
began the cleanup. The hired waitstaff had prepared the large dining room for
the banquet, so their only task was to clear the tables of glasses and the floors
of spilled food and wine. They worked noiselessly as Aerne’s voice came
muffled through the doors.
Joran knelt, scrubbing at the hors d’ouevres he’d spilled earlier
when Kristian had grabbed him. He kept his head down, still shaky from the confrontation,
and was completely unprepared when a hand grabbed his upper arm and jerked him
upright. He straightened, an apology ready to hand for whatever he’d done,
but he met those furious blue eyes and lost all power of speech.
Kristian hauled him to his feet; he didn’t resist, out of surprise or
conditioned submission he wasn’t sure. "You’re coming with me," Kristian
ordered, pulling him across the anteroom, and Joran came to himself enough to
set his feet determinedly.
"I have to stay here; we’re cleaning," he said. "You don’t understand,
I can’t just leave, I’ll get in trouble—"
Kristian yanked at his arm. "You want to play it that way? Fine. I order you
to come with me, slave. Does that make you happy?" Joran could hear the angry
tears beneath the cold aristo voice, but his own anger overrode his pity. Happy?
"If you want to take me away, sir," he answered, "you’ll need to
speak to my supervisor."
"Right," Kristian snapped back, and dragged Joran to the door where Halvar
stood watching the scene.
"I’m taking this slave upstairs," said Kristian. "I trust there are no
difficulties?"
Halvar bowed. "Certainly not, sir. If I could ask you to return him here when
you’ve finished with him?"
Joran turned back to Halvar as Kristian towed him along. I’m sorry,
sir, he mouthed, and Halvar nodded imperceptibly. Joran stopped fighting
Kristian and allowed him to take him where he would.
It turned out to be Joran’s suite. Kristian marched him through the door,
then slammed and locked it. He turned to face Joran. Joran stood still, uncertain
what he should do. The question was answered as Kristian rushed him and threw
his arms around him.
"Joran, oh God, I can’t believe it, I thought you were dead, I thought
that bastard had killed you, I never thought I’d see you again," he sobbed
into Joran’s neck. The sudden onslaught of passion startled Joran, but
his arms went up without volition, and he was holding onto Kristian as hard
as Kristian held him. He stroked the blond hair and murmured quiet words, trying
to calm him. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been the
one crying. "Shh, Kristian, shh, it’s all right, I’m not dead, it’s
all right … "
"I couldn’t," Kristian hiccupped, "I couldn’t get in, Aerne wouldn’t
let me in, I showed up every day for a month until he called the police and
they made me go. I tried, Joran, I honestly tried, I did."
"I believe you," Joran whispered. "It’s all right, Kristian, I understand,
don’t be upset, okay?" He rested his hand on the back of Kristian’s
head, but Kristian wasn’t through.
"Britte came too, she attacked Aerne but he laughed and threw her out. Katrin’s
doing more drugs than ever. And Greger and Sune, they went off somewhere, I
don’t know where, but I haven’t seen them in months. We tried though,
Joran, I swear we did, we didn’t forget you."
"I know," Joran said, feeling his own tears start. "I know you’d never
forget me, I never thought you did. I’m sorry, I couldn’t leave, I
couldn’t send messages, and when Aerne finally let me go to the club they
threw me out. Slaves aren’t allowed in. I didn’t know."
Kristian hugged him fiercely. "You aren’t a slave. Don’t call yourself
that." He lifted his head and held his hand over Joran’s mouth, stilling
his protests. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall apart. Listen. We
don’t have much time."
"What do you mean?"
Kristian wiped his eyes and gave him the crazy Kristian-grin he’d missed
more than he realized. "They’re all busy at the meeting. Let’s go.
We’ll go to my house and take my father’s aircar; we can be out of
the country in two hours. They won’t know where we’ve gone. We’ll
go away, far away, someplace they won’t find us."
"What?" Joran couldn’t understand for a minute. "I can’t do that.
I’m not allowed to leave the house without permission."
"For God’s sake," Kristian hissed, "stop with the slave shit. You don’t
have to pretend, not with me."
"But—" Joran protested, "We can’t. If they catch us, they’ll
arrest you, and Aerne will probably sell me to … God, I don’t know
who, but it would definitely be someone worse."
"Who could be worse?" Kristian looked at him. "Joran, you can’t tell me
you want to stay here and serve that bastard?"
"Of course not," came the automatic answer. "But think, Kristian, think about
it. We can’t just go racing off. We’re sure to get caught. And it’s
not always so terrible here; I don’t want to risk being sent away."
"Not so terrible?" Kristian pulled away from him in outrage. "Jesus, Joran,
everyone’s heard about what Aerne and his friends did to you. I thought
it was a lie, but when I saw you alive and saw what you were doing, I knew it
had happened. You can’t tell me you want to stay here when they do that
to you?"
"No, I mean – It could be worse, Kristian. There are worse places,
and I don’t want to find them."
"You won’t have to! We won’t get caught!" Kristian scowled. "Joran,
we’re losing time. Come with me."
"No."
"God." Kristian fell against the bed. "You damned stubborn git!"
Joran couldn’t help it; a bark of laughter burst from him. Kristian sat
up in surprise as Joran’s laughter became tinged with hysteria. "Stubborn—"
he gasped. "That’s what I always called you!"
Kristian grinned through his tears, then began to laugh as well. "God, we’re
a mess," he gasped.
Their laughter wound down eventually, and both grew serious. "Please," said
Kristian. "What if there was no risk?"
"Don’t be ridiculous, Kristian. It’s grand theft." Joran sat on the
bed next to him. "When they caught us, they’d bring me back and sentence
you. You’d end up a slave as well."
"If they caught us," Kristian corrected. "If I plan well enough, they won’t.
We’ll get over the border and they won’t be able to touch us. Give
me a few weeks and I’ll have everything set to go." He took Joran’s
hands in his. "You weren’t meant for this, Joran. You’re not one of
them. You need to be free."
Joran hesitated. "I don’t know," he said at last. "It’s terrifying."
"Joran, you have to get out of here," Kristian pressed. "It’s changing
you. You’re not the person I once knew, and if you change any more, you
won’t even be someone I can recognize. Don’t let that happen. Please."
He drew a finger down Joran’s face. "I love you."
Joran stopped breathing. When had he last heard those words? He yearned for
them, longed to be with someone who cared about him that much, and carried away
on that wave of emotion, he heard himself whisper, "All right."
Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t able to sleep. He lay in the enormous dark bed
with its enshrouding draperies and stared into nothing. His thoughts tumbled
over each other, and in the end he gave up and left his suite to wander the
house once more.
Weird shadows followed him as he drifted from one room to the next. He touched
a marble statue on the landing and wondered if this would be the last time he’d
see it. If he went away with Kristian, he’d never be able to come back.
They’d spend the rest of their lives in exile, someplace where the law
couldn’t touch them. Will his allowance continue? How will we live?
I suppose I’ll have to find a job.
He had no skills besides service. Would he be able to support them both? I
can’t think like that. I’ll just have to. Things will work out.
Like they had so far?
"What’s the problem, gosse?"
Joran jerked, his heart thumping, and repressed a scream. "Oh, God." He took
a deep breath, another. "You startled me."
Lukas came the rest of the way up the stairs. "What are you doing up? It’s
after two."
Joran ran fingers through his hair. "I couldn’t sleep. Sir. Why are you
here?"
"I used to do this all the time," said Lukas. "Halvar must know, but he’s
never stopped me. And you don’t have to say that. The ‘sir,’
I mean. Not now."
"Oh. Then … can I make a request?"
Lukas started to say something, sighed, and nodded. "Go ahead."
"Don’t call me sir either. Okay?"
His sudden, unguarded smile made Lukas appear years younger. "Okay." He lifted
a hand in an easy gesture, as if to rumple Joran’s hair, but pulled back
suddenly. The quiet was uncomfortable. "So, neither of us feels like sleeping.
Why don’t we go somewhere and talk?"
"All right." Joran kept himself from leaping on the suggestion, from clutching
Lukas and babbling out how much he’d missed him. They snuck down the staircase
together, and he followed Lukas through the great hall. They took passage after
passage, down hallways at once familiar and strange, until they reached a small
sitting room. It was empty of furniture, covered in thick layers of dust, but
as Joran looked around, he remembered a divan, pillows on the floor, a dancing
fire in the fireplace, and a woman with long, honey-brown hair and a warm smile.
"This was my mother’s room," he said softly.
"No one comes here anymore," said Lukas.
They closed the door behind them and sat on the bare wooden floor. The only
light came from the half moon through the ceiling-high window; its pale light
gleamed off Lukas’s eyes, off the rims of his glasses, and for a moment
his face seemed to glow. Joran looked away.
"I used to come here after your mother died. To get away from Rurik, mostly."
A grin dashed across Lukas’s face. "Then the Chairman closed the wing off,
and I stayed away. I haven’t been here in years."
Joran stared at the wall. "After she died, I didn’t want to come. I asked
Father to shut it all up. I didn’t want to remember that it was here."
There was a pause. Lukas scratched the back of his neck. "Joran, how are you
feeling?"
He gave the prudent answer. "I’m fine."
"No, you aren’t." Lukas shook his head. "Tell me. Really."
Joran sat, staring at the empty fireplace. His laugh wasn’t really a laugh.
"Oh, I’m just fine. Completely confused, and usually really, really scared,
but otherwise doing great. And you?"
Lukas sighed. "You’re bitter. I can understand that."
"Can you?" The darkness, the isolation, and the moonlight gave him a reckless
courage. "You know what it’s like to have everything – everything
in your goddamned life – ripped away from you? To get raped
up the ass for no discernible reason? To have the rules changed constantly until
you don’t know if you’re allowed to breathe? To go from zenith to
nadir in one fucking minute, and to know that you have no one to blame but yourself?
You think that might make me bitter?"
"Yes." Lukas stared out the window into a thicket of trees. "I was. Sometimes
I still am."
Joran didn’t listen. "You don’t know. You can’t understand it.
I was an exek. I had everything: money, status, control – and I
let it go. I failed. I wasn’t strong enough or good enough to keep what
I had. Father always treated me as his son, but something inside – I’m
flawed. I couldn’t stand against Aerne, I submitted without resistance.
If I’d deserved what I had, I would have been able to hold on to it." He
slumped. "I didn’t. I deserve to be a slave. That’s what hurts."
"Oh, gosse." There was a weight of sadness in Lukas’s voice. "You didn’t
deserve to be property, to be beaten and raped. Neither did I; no one does."
Joran’s vent suddenly lost its steam. "You were raped too? When? Here?
Who did it?"
"Who didn’t?" The words held their own bitterness. "Well, no, I take that
back. Halvar didn’t. Nor my trainer. Every other Supervisor I ever had,
though. And other slaves, too many to remember. I had to fight for a place,
but I usually lost." He hunched over with a wry expression. "Actually, I don’t
remember ever winning. I know how it feels to be violated, to be hurt repeatedly
until you can’t even cry anymore. I learned at a much younger age than
you did." He looked at Joran intently. "Did I deserve it?"
"No," Joran said through lips gone white. "You were a child, there was no way
for you to avoid it—"
"Oh come now, Joran!" Lukas snapped. "You aren’t usually so dense. Of
course I couldn’t avoid it. Neither could you. Our status is arbitrary
and unfair, but there exists an entire society to keep us where we are. We are
what we are by accident, and we stay what we are because there are too many
who force us to."
Joran’s face remained stubborn. "My mother was a slave. I must have inherited
my weakness from her, there’s no other explanation."
"Good God." Lukas stood up and began to pace the room. "Joran," he said, stopping
short, "do you remember the first time Egon whipped you?"
Joran grimaced. "Of course I do."
"Do you remember how you reacted?"
"I was terrified; I could hardly get up to go with him. When he beat me, I
cried and begged him to stop." Joran blushed at the memory of his disgrace.
"Do you know what I saw? I saw a boy who’d never experienced discipline
before overcome his fear and go willingly with someone he knew was going to
hurt him. Who may have cried, but who stayed there and endured it until the
beating was over. Who held up under restrictions stricter than most people ever
have to face, and only broke after months of provocation. Are those the actions
of a weak person?" He crouched down beside Joran. "Which exek do you know who
could do that? Could your friends? Could your brother?"
Joran stared into his eyes, hungry to believe it. Lukas pressed his advantage.
"Today, you went out and faced a roomful of people knowing what they would think
of you. You held yourself together and served admirably under massive strain.
And when given a chance – no, I wasn’t there, but it’s not hard
to figure out what Kristian said to you— you chose to stay rather than
run away. That took more strength than even most slaves could find."
Joran looked away, ashamed, unable to meet Lukas’s earnest gaze, but Lukas
gripped Joran’s chin and turned his head back. "Slaves are strong, Joran.
We have to be. We’re at the bottom of society; we’re the base of the
pyramid. There is so much pressure placed on us, and we bear up under it because
we must. Never, never reproach yourself for weakness, or think that being a
slave makes you less than you were. You’ve been tested under brutal conditions,
and you’re stronger than you ever knew. Take pride in that."
Joran’s face was naked, emotions flying across it faster than an aircar
across the sky. He wanted to believe this; here was permission to have confidence
again, to be able to hold up his head, if only in his own mind. "It’s true?"
he whispered. "You believe that?"
"I do."
Joran remembered how he had behaved before. His life of ease. How much he and
his friends had taken for granted. He tried to imagine Greger in this place,
Britte, Katrin. Would they have been able to do what he had?
Would Aerne?
The truth broke over him like sunshine after a storm, and he basked in it.
"Lukas … " He brushed away incipient tears and smiled. "Thank you."
"Joran." Lukas put his arms around him for the first time in so long, and they
clung together. "I wish I could say everything will be fine. I could never say
that; none of us have that guarantee. But you will be fine. You’re
strong. You can survive."
Joran sniffed hard. "God, I love you." The words were unexpected, but he meant
them, he knew he did. He kept his head in Lukas’s chest so he wouldn’t
have to see the reaction. Lukas’s arms didn’t loosen, but he sighed.
"Oh, gosse … "
"I know what you’re going to say," Joran said rapidly. "You think I’m
grabbing on to whatever I can to avoid being alone. To avoid pain. I’m
not. I can’t avoid pain, it’s everywhere I look, and I don’t
even try anymore." He tightened his fingers in Lukas’s shirt. "Do you …
"
"Joran, no. I mean—" He inhaled. "God. You’re so … sweet. You’re
kind. You work hard, I watch you struggle every day through things no one should
have to face, you try and try, and—" Exhale. "How could I not love you?"
Joran held still. A tremor ran through him. Lukas kept talking, as if he were
afraid of stopping. "It’s terrifying, do you know how much it frightens
me? I’ve never loved anyone, and look what I did to you. I never wanted
to, but I made the choice and did it."
"I don’t blame you for it." Joran lifted his head. "It was a terrible
choice to have to make, it was no choice at all, but if I’d known, I would
have wanted you to do what you did. You were right – they’re unfair,
and we have to do the best we can. That’s what you did." The moon shone
on his hair and highlighted the intensity in his eyes. "That’s why I love
you."
Lukas didn’t speak.
"I love you for caring about me. I love you for making it as easy for me as
you could. You didn’t have to be so kind. You didn’t have to let me
sleep in your bed, and you certainly didn’t have to spend all those nights
talking to me and answering my stupid questions." Joran rose to his knees, leaned
forward. "I love you, I honestly do," he said huskily, and put his lips to Lukas’s.
Who jerked away as if he’d been burned. "No," he said, white showing all
the way around his eyes, "no, don’t do that, never do that."
Joran stared in astonishment at the man. "But— you love me, you said you
did. What’s wrong? Do I disgust you?"
"No, no, Joran, it’s not that—"
"I’m sorry, I can’t get used to the way I look now either, but if
you close your eyes … " He bent quickly and moved his mouth toward Lukas’s
groin. "I can make you forget, I can make you feel good, I want to—"
"No!" Lukas shoved him away hard. "It’s not you. I don’t want you
to think— no, don’t touch me. Please. If you want to make me happy,
then please. Don’t."
"I’m sorry." Joran looked stunned. "I didn’t mean … I’m
sorry." He backed away into the shadows, confused, devastated.
"Don’t," said Lukas. "Don’t go."
Joran couldn’t respond.
"I can’t," Lukas said. "Can’t do it. I never have. I never could.
I’ve had sex, God knows, but I never wanted it, I never asked for it. I’ve
had more stuffed up my ass and down my throat than a man at a three-day orgy.
All I know is that it hurts, it’s painful, it’s demeaning. I could
never do that to someone I care about. It makes me sick."
"But you did it before." Joran’s voice was muffled against the wall.
"God," said Lukas with feeling. "That was the worst." He looked down. "Halvar
gave me something to make me hard. I couldn’t have, otherwise." He let
out a sharp, short laugh. "If you want to use that to urge me on, you’ll
be waiting a very long time."
The hush stretched out. Joran had crept back to where Lukas sat; moonlight
illuminated both as they sat cross-legged on the bare floor. "You’ve never
been with someone where it wasn’t rape? Not once?"
The chill light glinted on the metal of Lukas’s glasses as he bent his
head. His voice was rough. "Someone kissed me, once. It ended badly. I don’t
like thinking about it."
Joran pushed on, unable to believe he was asking this. It’s the dark.
It’s because it’s late, and we’re tired, and things are so strange,
nothing’s too weird anymore. "Do you ever … by yourself?"
Lukas’s laugh was incredulous this time. "Don’t you think you might
be overstepping there, gosse?"
Joran shrugged, surprised himself at how little afraid he was anymore. "If
I am, then punish me. I’d rather you didn’t, but I’ll take it
if you think I need it. And you don’t have to answer, I’ll accept
that too. I just … thought we were trusting each other tonight."
"You … " Words didn’t come, and Lukas shook his head, a tiny smile
at the edge of his mouth. "Okay. Yes, once in a while."
Joran looked away, out the window. "I do it sometimes, too. I used to …
I mean, my friends and I … you know, we couldn’t be in each other
all the time, sometimes it hurt, even when we didn’t mean it to.
And when that happened, we’d just touch. I loved that, I think I liked
it more than having sex sometimes. It was so nice just to touch. Like we were
kids again, playing around." He looked back. "Lukas, do you trust me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you?" Joran felt older than he ever had, years older than he’d been
this afternoon at the meeting.
Lukas waited; Joran could see the pieces falling together in his mind. He drew
a deep, shaking breath. "Yes," he whispered.
"Then will you let me do something that would make me very happy?"
Lukas closed his eyes and his face tightened, then relaxed. "All right."
Joran put a hand on his shoulder. "Will you lie down?"
Lukas did as he asked, his eyes still shut. Joran rested a hand on his chest,
feeling the pounding of his heart beneath it.
He kept his hand still until Lukas’s heart slowed, until his breath came
more naturally and not in quick hisses. He slid the hand down Lukas’s thin
shirt, stopping as Lukas began to gasp again. "I’m not going to hurt you,"
Joran said. "I’d never do that. I love you. Please trust me, please relax."
Lukas nodded once. Between his teeth, his voice was hoarse. "I’m trying."
Joran continued down Lukas’s flat stomach. When he reached the waistband
of his pajamas, Lukas flinched. "It’ll be all right," Joran soothed. "I
promise." He slipped his hand inside. "You’ve been so good to me," he continued,
his fingers finding Lukas’s cock, which showed absolutely no evidence of
arousal. "All I want now is to make you feel good. Don’t be afraid.
You can ask me to stop, and I will."
Lukas’s breath came harsher than before, but he shook his head. Joran
moved down gently, his fingers caring, skillful. He slid his hand further to
cup Lukas’s balls, holding them for a moment. He felt a twitch, and smiled.
He drew his fingertips up to the tip in a loving caress; it had begun to grow
under his ministrations. "I want to give you this, Lukas," he said. "I love
seeing you happy." He stroked around the corona, and was rewarded with a hiss
and a throb beneath his hand. He began to feel moisture, and he ran the edge
of a finger around the tip. A moan sounded above him. He looked up to see Lukas’s
eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.
"God," he said, his voice guttural, "I didn’t— I never—" He
shuddered as Joran’s hand covered his cock. "You— oh, dear God."
Joran worked spit into his mouth, used his other hand to bring it for lubrication.
When he ran his closed hand down Lukas’s shaft, a heavy groan burst from
the man and he strained, arching his back. "Careful," said Joran, placing his
free hand on Lukas’s ribs, "don’t let it end so soon, just try to
relax." Lukas nodded, eyes still staring upward, and his muscles loosened, his
body came back to the floor. Joran lightened his touch, just grazing Lukas’s
skin with his fingers. "It feels good, I know," he said in a voice one might
use to calm a nervous child, "I want you to feel good, I want you to know how
wonderful love can feel. It makes me so happy to do this for you, we’re
both happy, and this is what love is." He leaned his head down and kissed Lukas
gently on the shoulder. "This is what love is."
Slowly, solicitously, he closed his hand around Lukas’s cock again and
pulled upward. Slid back down. Lukas was trembling, his muscles strung tight.
Joran moved his hand again, and what came out of Lukas was not a moan but a
whimper. Joran bent his head close. "Oh please, oh please, oh please oh please
oh please … " he heard, and the throb of desire in Lukas’s voice made
him smile. He quickened his pace. Lukas’s voice came louder. "Please please
please please please please please—" his entire body stiffened and he let
out a cry— "Oh GOD," and Joran felt the dam break as Lukas’s
fists clenched at his sides, his voice gushed screams, and his cock shot his
orgasm into Joran’s still-active hand. Sweat stood out on Lukas’s
skin, glittering in the pale light, and his screams dropped down into moans,
breathless gasps for air, as Joran’s hand slowed, pulling the final tremors
from his body.
Joran held his hand there for a moment. Lukas shook, his staring eyes blank.
He tried to speak, but no sound would come forth. Joran pulled his hand from
Lukas’s body with care, wiped it on the leg of his own pajamas, and placed
his hands on Lukas’s chest. "Are you all right? Can you hear me?"
Lukas’s head turned away, and his gasps became rougher, steadier. Terrified,
Joran lay beside him and wrapped his arms around him. "Lukas, please, please
don’t cry. Did it hurt? I’m sorry, I tried to be gentle, I’m
so sorry if I hurt you."
Lukas shook his head. "No," he gasped out between sobs, "I’m not hurt,
I’m—" A fit of trembling ran through him. "I never— never knew,
never thought something could – all those times, and I never knew."
Joran held him until his tears ceased and his shivering eased. Neither spoke.
The moon went behind a cloud, and they lay together on the floor in the dust
and darkness.
Chapter 12
Joran closed the library door behind him. "You want to see me?"
"I do." Aerne beckoned him forward. "Come sit down."
Joran complied. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he kept them on his
brother as he sat and waited for him to speak.
Aerne cleared his throat, and a small smile hovered around his mouth. "I have
some good news for you. I’m assigning you to be my assistant permanently.
You’ve done very well over the past month; I think this arrangement will
benefit both of us."
Joran blinked. He was at a loss. Aerne looked expectant, waiting for …
what? Thanks? Promises to work hard? Joran licked his lips, said the only thing
he could think of. "I didn’t think you’d want to keep me around you."
A tolerant chuckle from Aerne. "You’ve been much less irritating than
you used to be. Polite, obedient – you’ve quite improved yourself
over the last year. I do hope it continues."
"I see what you’re doing." Joran looked directly at Aerne. "You’re
never going to let me go."
Aerne raised his eyebrows in ironic amusement, but Joran could see he was disconcerted.
"Did you think I would?"
"You might have." It all came together finally as Joran heard himself say it.
"But you won’t, not now. Not after yesterday."
"Really." Aerne leaned back. "Enlighten me."
"I know those people as well as you do," said Joran. "I understand what those
looks meant. They’ve known me my entire life, just as they’ve known
you. And they saw what you’ve made me. They didn’t know you could
be so ruthless; it scares them, and they aren’t used to fear. You’ve
put them off-balance. Perfect for a new Chairman looking to make an impression."
He gave a slight bow of his head. "Without saying a word. Subtle."
Aerne nodded back. "You were helpful, certainly. I especially liked the little
scene with your friend. ‘Please, sir, please let me go!’ Very nicely
done."
Joran let this go by. "Are you sure you want a slave as your assistant? Especially
me? Working closely with your personal affairs? Do you think you can trust me?
I could go behind your back to your enemies; I could ruin you."
"If you did that," said Aerne, "I’d certainly be justified in executing
you." He grinned suddenly. "But I doubt you would. What would be the result?
All my possessions forfeit to my creditors – you’d be gone along with
the rest of them. I rather think you’d like to avoid that, if at all possible."
A half-shrug. "Besides, it should work out for the best. You can’t quit
and take off like the last one. I won’t have to train anyone else unless
I get tired of you. And if you keep on as you’ve begun, that won’t
be for some time yet."
Joran suddenly felt very tired. "Right. I understand. Can I ask one question?"
Aerne waved a hand.
The words almost strangled Joran. "Why the rape? Did that have a purpose, or
was it just for fun?"
"Good God, Joran. Of course there was a purpose." Aerne looked insulted. "What
do you take me for? When have I gone around raping slaves for my own enjoyment?"
Joran let this lie. "I needed a rumor to start it off with," Aerne continued.
"You hadn’t been heard from in months. I had to plant the seed. They came
to the meeting having heard an impossible rumor, and they saw you, and the impossible
became real."
Joran nodded. "I see. And the drugs?"
"Well, that was Kjell’s idea," Aerne allowed. "He seemed to think you
might not want to join in. And that would have made everything much more difficult."
"Right." Joran’s voice was nearly as dry as Aerne’s. "You knew what
I’d been through belowstairs. You saw the marks. I managed to take that;
did you really think I’d dare object to anything else you and your sadistic
friends wanted to do?"
"Careful, Joran," said Aerne.
Joran closed his eyes. "I’ve tried, alderbroder, I’ve done everything
you’ve demanded of me. You wanted me to learn manners; I did. You wanted
me to be useful; I was. You wanted my submission; I gave it. After all that,
you wanted me to stop acting as a slave, and I did that too, only to be treated
in a way Father would never have treated the lowest of us."
"Father," said Aerne, "is not here anymore. Times are changing, and certain
adjustments must be made. Unfortunate, yes, but necessary." His mouth tightened
as he spoke.
"That’s shit, brother." Joran’s eyes snapped open; his tone was level.
"I understand I aggravated you, provoked you. I was not a good brother to you.
I should have been better. I can see why you sent me belowstairs, but the rest
of it – no. Some actions are never necessary. Only expedient." He shifted.
"Shall I tell you why you did it?"
His brother stared at him serenely, his emotions showing only in his ice-green
eyes. "This ought to be amusing."
"Bastien kept pushing you. You were afraid you were going to fail, that you’d
never be able to match Father’s business skills. You were afraid of losing
shareholder support. And there I was. Useful. So you used me."
"You’re my slave, Joran. You’re here to be used." The mockery in
Aerne’s voice didn’t reach his face.
Joran looked at him closer. "You didn’t like it, did you?"
"Didn’t like what, lillebroder?" Aerne’s eyes shifted to a point
behind Joran’s head.
A bitter smile stretched Joran’s lips. "I don’t believe it. And here
I thought you were heartless. But you didn’t like hearing I was whipped
with a chain either; I remember what you said. You feel the same about the rape,
don’t you? You knew it wasn’t necessary; you could have found another
way. But raping me was easier. Do you wish you hadn’t now?"
"Joran," said Aerne, "explain to me why I shouldn’t have you whipped with
a chain right now for speaking to me this way."
"Because you know I’m right." Joran stared right back at Aerne, unafraid.
"You can have me beaten to death if you like, but it won’t change anything.
And because—" Joran stopped, nodded "—because I think you’re
glad I know. You want someone to see you’re not a complete monster, don’t
you?"
Aerne closed his eyes briefly; he looked weary. "I think that’s enough."
Joran waited. The moments stretched in the silence. Finally, Aerne sighed.
"We have nothing more to say to each other. You may go."
He knew he shouldn’t push, that he should be grateful to leave with his
skin intact, but "May I make two requests first?" Joran asked.
"So many?" Aerne shrugged. "Let’s hear what they are."
"First, I’d like to use the communicat to send a message."
"A call?"
Joran shook his head. He couldn’t speak directly, that would kill him.
"Just a text message. It won’t be long."
Aerne was suspicious. "I’ll want to see it before you send it."
"All right." Joran swallowed. This was harder than it had seemed in his mind
yesterday. "And … I’d like to return belowstairs."
Surprise sent Aerne’s eyebrows to the top of his face. "Really. How intriguing.
Explain why, please."
"Does it matter why?" A pleading note crept into his voice.
"It does when I want to know."
I’m strong. I’m a slave, and I’m strong, and it doesn’t
matter what he thinks of me. "I’m alone, Aerne. I’m neither one
thing nor the other, and it’s killing me inside. I can’t live split
like this." He swallowed. "You’re my brother, or you’re my master.
A brother would not enslave me, and a master would not give me special privileges.
You’ve made your decision as to what you want to be, now follow through
with the rest of it. Don’t try to salve your conscience by pretending otherwise."
"So you’d prefer to be belowstairs, packed into a room with a dozen other
slaves?" Aerne let out a short laugh. "I don’t understand it, but if that’s
what you want, I wish you all the joy."
"Don’t mistake me, alderbroder," said Joran quietly. "This is not what
I want to be. Don’t take this as reassurance; don’t try to believe
I’m happier as a slave than I would be as a free man. I’m not going
to complain, and I certainly won’t sabotage you. But don’t think I
absolve you of this decision. I’m simply trying to find a way to live with
it." He stood. "Thank you, sir."
Joran held a bundle of clothes in his arms. He stood before the door to the
stairway. Breathing deep, he swung the door open.
Slowly he descended the first flight. He saw faces in his mind. Greger. Britte.
Sune. Katrin. Goodbye, he thought. I won’t see you again. I’m
grateful for your love. I thank you for trying to help. It’s not your fault
it couldn’t work.
He reached the landing and adjusted the bundle. He pictured Kristian, the last
time he’d seen him. The memory of the impassioned eyes, the reckless smile
stabbed him sharply. He envisioned Kristian reading the message he’d just
left. He saw Kristian’s shock, his hurt, his anger. He wished it could
be different. They don’t allow us easy choices. We have to do the best
we can.
He started down the second flight, and the last face drifted into his mind.
Ivory-skinned, hawk-nosed, black hair tied back tightly and deep dark eyes that
had so often looked at him with benevolence. Father. You were wrong about
something. One can be a slave and still be a man. We bear what’s done to
us, the theft of choice, the loss of opportunity, and we make our lives work
in spite of it. We are not less. We are greater. And I hope you’re somewhere
you can see us. I believe you’d be proud.
At the bottom of the staircase, he stopped. He closed his eyes, tried to slow
the thumping of his heart. His breath came in eager gasps. He opened his eyes,
reached out, swung open the door. And as he stepped through and saw the others
– Gudrun bending to take a pan from the oven, Tekla wiping down the counters,
Lukas dashing through on an errand for Halvar – he couldn’t help smiling.
Tekla looked up and gasped, and Gudrun nearly dropped her bread in shock. Lukas
spun around. "Gudrun, are you all—" he began, then registered Joran in
the doorway. He saw the bundle, looked from it to Joran’s grin. Unmixed
joy suffused Lukas’s face. Joran looked from one to the other, their expressions
full of happiness and delight, and knew he’d come home.
End
Comments (0)
You don't have permission to comment on this page.