Volume 13: Tales From the Sanctioned Brothel: Part I: The Painted Boy
Chapter 13
Her Mark
Chapter Notes
Warning: This chapter features branding and other violence.
Chapter Notes
Warning: This chapter features branding and other violence.
Warning: This chapter features branding and other violence.
Einara felt faint. They’d left the greenhouse brothel far behind, but she could swear she still smelled the overripe mingling of flowers, incense, and decay.Hulda handed her a thermos. “Have some tea, dear. You don’t look well at all.”Einara knew the tea might contain sap or something stronger, but she had no energy to refuse. The warm liquid steadied her a fraction, and she tried to focus on the skyscrapers floating past outside the window of the mag-van. They were in the cluttered delivery vehicle that Svesinov used to fetch large supply shipments.She felt intense gratitude that they hadn’t had to return the long way, by tram or on foot, because she wasn’t sure she could have walked more than a few steps with Hulda’s possessive hand on her arm. The possibilities for clawing the director’s eyes out, escaping, and throwing herself off a building would have proved too tempting.Hulda knew that, of course. The woman was considerate, in her way.“Topaz,” Einara said as they approached Ring One, the surrounding buildings growing older and more ornate. It was the first word she’d spoken since the greenhouse. “Svesinov must have told you about their deal. Will you punish him?”The old woman shook her head. She seemed neither angry nor smug at having caught Einara, only as calm as if she were relaxing with her knitting after a long day.“Svesinov’s a sentimental fool,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice so that the steward, who was driving, wouldn’t hear. “But, since he did the right thing and came clean to me, neither will be punished. Topaz and I will work out a visitation schedule for his poor bastard child.” After a moment, she added, “In case you’re wondering, you won’t be punished, either.”Dread began to worm its way through the thick blanket of Einara’s stupor. “I know you,” she said.“And I know you.” Hulda reached out, absent-mindedly, and tidied a strand of hair that had escaped from Einara’s braid. “Ever since you asked me about the Northmen, I’ve been waiting for you to do something like this. I only thought you might be smarter and subtler about it.”Recognizing the words as provocation, Einara bit down on her angry reply. “We have a difference of opinion, Fir’n,” she said evenly. “You think these Northmen are useless troublemakers. I disagree.”“My dear, I don’t think there’s much we do agree on, including our ultimate goals.” Hulda gave the braid a jerk that made Einara wince. “But I’ve always known what you are—a feral animal that fouls and destroys any cage you give it. I only hoped I could tame you into something useful.”Einara swallowed hard. They seemed to be taking the route back to the Brothel, but it was well within Hulda’s powers to have Svesinov slit her throat and dump her body in the Wastes. Perhaps they would torture her for the Verses first. Hulda claimed not to want the codes that supposedly unlocked Redda’s infrastructure, but who would leave such a weapon on the table?The realization turned Einara ice cold, her fingertips going numb. Still, she managed not to tremble as she raised her eyes to the Director’s and said, “And now?”Hulda looked back at her. “Are you hoping I’ll give up on you? Offer you the punishment you actually deserve for what you did” — and now she did lower her voice— “to my nephew?”You failed to tame me. “I’m not afraid,” Einara said, controlling her voice with effort.Hulda patted the younger woman’s hand, her face relaxing into a fond smile. “My dear, is that really true?”The woman had her number. Einara knew she was still the coward who had murdered Irin Dartán rather than risk the possibility of her own exposure and execution. She still wanted to live—for her plans, for her vengeance. She wanted to come face to face with Tilrey Bronn and best him at his own game.And, if she plumbed deep into her heart, she had to admit she also wanted to live for soft, foolish reasons—for instance, to keep having teatime with Kai and Bors, two Oslovs whom she’d managed not to despise. To listen to them bicker while the snow flew outside. To feel Kai’s embrace and pretend she was a normal girl who could find comfort in a pair of strong arms. Even Hulda’s company hadn’t been unpleasant, most of the time. Einara had a life at the Brothel, full of routines that were relaxingly the same year after year. She wanted to live that life. She wanted another ten years, another year, another month, another ten-day, another day, another hour.Did Hulda know that? Did she want her to beg? Einara set her jaw the way Colonel Thibault had trained her to do. “I’m not afraid of you.”Hulda’s sticklike fingers caressed Einara’s hand. “You may not be tamed, little fierce one, but I think you can be trained. Believe me, if I were going to harm you, I would have done it a long time ago.”Councillor Lindblom knew what she was doing with a strap-on, and she had stamina that few men could match. The Painted Boy was down on all fours on the carpet, where he couldn’t see the bedside clock, but he suspected they’d been going for twenty minutes or so. Despite her careful lubrication, the dildo she was using on him was huge, and each thrust was starting to burn.When she reached for his cock, the Painted Boy flinched away. He was already achingly hard, and her teasing was infernal. The clamps she’d fastened to his nipples swung with each thrust, sending shivers of itching sensation down his spine. “Can’t hold out much longer, Fir’n.”Davita Lindblom gave him a smart smack on the flank, right on top of the light welts she’d laid there earlier. “What have I told you about whining?”The Painted Boy winced, but the pain was still on the verge of pleasure. “I’m not! I just—can’t.” He raised his hips to take her thrusts deeper, tears pricking his eyes. Being fucked by a blunt, insensitive object always made him feel like an object himself—made for patrons’ pleasure—and it always made him come harder. He didn’t particularly want to think about why.“You’re a dreadful whiner. You know that.” Davita seized hold of his cock and gave it a caress, followed by a slap that made the Painted Boy gasp. She tweaked the clamp attached to one sensitive nipple, and he moaned. “You’re still that spoiled little schoolboy, sweetheart, relying on a pretty face to get you out of anything uncomfortable.”The Painted Boy barely suppressed a sob. “I am not.”“I’m not insulting you. It’s part of your charm.”He knew better than to argue, so he braced himself on his strong arms and offered his ass to the thrusts and let the tears flow down his cheeks. Inside him, though, a voice continued to insist with more and more confidence: That’s not you anymore. You’re thirty-two years old. You can get by on a vial a day now, maybe less. You have two friends who’ve seen you at your worst and still don’t hate you. You’re learning a trade. You could be a real person.The voice was Einara’s voice, and he imagined she was the one who was perched on his back ferociously fucking him, even as she whispered in his ear. Einara could ride him even harder than Lindblom, of that he was sure. She would be ruthless, too, but he would love every second. Einara would tear him down exactly as much as he needed to be torn down, then build him up again. She knew who he was, both his weakness and his strength.When the Councillor finally let him come, the intensity of the spasm swept all thoughts away. The Painted Boy was dimly conscious of his seed spilling on the carpet, and he had a fleeting memory of the time Hulda had punished him by making him spend a day on the clean-up crew that dealt with such things. Then Davita slid the wooden phallus out of him, inch by agonizing inch, and he returned to his body, groaning in mingled ecstasy and humiliation.The Councillor helped him up onto the bed and stretched him out on the enormous simulated polar bear pelt. While he rested from his labors, she put on one of her florid Harbourer robes and fetched the tea cart she’d ordered from outside. She liked to fuss over him and feed him, raising a tumbler to his lips and then a cookie, as if he were an invalid.“You love this, don’t you?” she said, tousling his hair as he chewed. “You must have been such a mama’s boy.”The Painted Boy didn’t want to discuss his mother, who was a proud Upstart. He curled up on Davita’s bosom, nuzzling the silk of her robe. She hadn’t removed the clamps, and the contact irritated his aching nipples in a way that was almost arousing again. “What can I say, Fir’n? Women have always wanted to take care of me.”“Because you’re always the prettiest boy in the room.” She stroked his earlobe. “And you know it, vain creature.”The Painted Boy had an idea. “Am I the best-looking you’ve ever had?” he asked.Davita laughed—a low chuckle that stirred his cock again. “You’re in the top five. Beyond that, I don’t play favorites.”“Yes, you do. I know you do. A connoisseur like you?” He tugged himself from her grip and put a fatuous pout on his face. “Who’ve you ever had who’s hotter than me, Fir’n? Is it that stuck-up kettle boy, the one who lives with Fir Gádden? Tilrey Bronn?”The amusement vanished abruptly from Davita’s expression. “Who told you about him?”“Everybody knows who he is. He lived with two General Magistrates from two opposite parties.” When Bors said Tilrey Bronn spent regular nights with Lindblom, the Painted Boy hadn’t thought much of it. Just one more bit of data from Bors’s near-stalking pursuit of Tilrey. But the Councillor’s sudden seriousness made him think this was a connection worth exploring.He kept his tone light, unthreatening. “Bronn’s a Skeinsha, and yet they let him sit in the Council chamber and speak as a proxy for Fir Councillor Gádden, almost like he was the Councillor. It’s because they’re all in love with him, or because he’s got dirt on all of them, right? Nobody knows which.”Davita took a businesslike sip of tea. “You shouldn’t spread gossip.”“What else can I do? I don’t get to sit in the Council chamber. I’m just a poor whore, spending my days waiting for you Fira to come pay attention to me.” The Painted Boy put on his pout again. “You’ve had Bronn, haven’t you? I can tell. You think he’s special, just like they all do. What makes him more special than me?”His petulance seemed to set the Councillor at ease; she flicked his bangs out of his eyes. “It’s not a contest, darling, and jealousy doesn’t become you. But if you must know, he’s also in my top five.”Bors was right. The Painted Boy kept the peeved expression on his face, playing the vapid creature she wanted him to be. “So, what’s the deal? He’s no younger than me. Does he have a magic cock? Magic hands? Magic mouth?”Davita’s face had gone dreamy. “Some of each. In bed, he’s rather like you—I do have a type. Delightfully submissive. Suffers beautifully.” She leaned in and gave the Painted Boy a maternal kiss. “But you shouldn’t compare yourself to someone who’s completely unlike you in every other way. From what I gather, books and studying aren’t your forte, and politics even less.”So she knew Bronn had political ambitions. Was she helping him fulfill them? The Painted Boy filed away the remark to tell Bors and Einara. If he was careful, he might be able to coax Davita, session by session, into telling him more. She seemed to enjoy his “jealousy.”“So he’s bookish,” he said derisively. “That sounds like an incredible turn-on. What does he do, read to you in bed?”“Sometimes. You’re such a lout, you know that? You would have made a terrible Upstart.” And, with a happy laugh, the Councillor pulled him down on his back and gave him a long, leisurely kiss, her hand reaching for his cock. “I think it’s time I got fucked now, darling.”Kai was still smiling, just a little, when he returned to his room from the showers. He was too sore to have a spring in his step, but the endorphins from two orgasms made his body pleasantly light, and now he had something to tell Einara when he saw her later this evening.He lay down for a nap, hoping to get some rest before then, but before he could close his eyes, the door burst open. Svant and Svesinov stood tall in the doorway, both of them grim-faced. Svant carried something—a tool box?“Get up,” the Brothel steward barked. “Spot inspection.”“Okay, okay.” Kai despised the man, but obedience was a reflex at this point. He hauled himself up—ouch—and stood with his back to the door and his hands against the wall, legs spread.Svesinov frisked Kai in a businesslike way, tugging his flimsy sleepwear aside when necessary. Behind them, Svant was moving around—searching the room, Kai supposed. He would probably find the cache of vials in the hole in the mattress, but Kai couldn’t bring himself to worry. Anything they confiscated, Einara would return to him with interest. She took care of him.“Here we go,” Svant said, sounding almost unhappy. “Six and a third.”“Let me see.” Svesinov went to examine the tattooist’s find.Kai stayed where he was, knowing it was better to look cooperative. Every month or so, Hulda complained to Svesinov about the staff hoarding their tips, and the steward made a show of enforcing the rules. At worst, Kai might be put on cleaning duty for a day or so, but Einara could probably get him out of that, too.When two pairs of hands seized him from behind, yanking him away from the wall, he was so surprised he fought back. Both men were on him, trying to pin his arms. Kai landed a kick on Svesinov’s shin that sent the steward staggering backward, then flailed himself free of Svant. “What the fuck?” He’d been cooperating.But Svesinov was back and angry, and Kai couldn’t control his instinct for self-defense. He landed a wild punch on the steward’s jaw and went on struggling until together they got him on the floor.Svant sat on him, clamping his wrists together. “Just lie still,” he muttered, his hot breath on Kai’s face. But Kai needed to see what the steward was up to. He twisted desperately and saw Svesinov fetching something from a corner—a smock covered with nylon straps.A straitjacket. A fucking straitjacket like they used on addicts in moral rehab so they wouldn’t bother anyone with the spasms of their withdrawal. Kai had seen it in a dramastream: a sweet-drowned man lying trussed in a tiny cell, flailing and crying out for mercy, unheard. The stream was a cautionary tale of sap abuse, but for him it only sent the message to stay the fuck out of moral rehab.He went limp all at once, panting, knowing his resistance had been a stupid mistake. “What’re you doing? I’m not—I’m not like that. Ask Einara. I’ve cut down my dose. I’ve been good. Ask her!”Ignoring his pleas, the two men sat him up and forced his arms into the elongated sleeves, then buckled them firmly against his chest. The device was so confining that struggle was useless, but not struggling set Kai’s teeth on edge. Maybe Svesinov was taking revenge for the kick and the punch, being extra harsh on him. But why had they brought the contraption in the first place?“Get Einara,” he insisted, trying to keep his voice steady. “This is all a mistake—she’ll tell you. She gave me those vials on Hulda’s orders. She knows!”The steward took his time buckling the last strap, at the small of Kai’s back, which cinched the whole jacket punishingly tight. Then he swung Kai around to face the open door.Einara stood there, looking down at him with an expression of mild interest. She wore all white, her usual braid pinned high like a crown. Her eyes were the blue of the frozen ocean.“They’re here on my orders, Kai,” she said. “You’ve proved yourself unworthy of managing a sap allowance, so we’re going to clean out your system and see if that makes you easier to handle.”“I—what? But you—” Then Kai was struggling again, wildly and hopelessly. He tried to stand up, to go to her, as if it would matter.Svesinov shoved him back down on his knees, hard. “You’re making it worse for yourself, Strutter.”They still hated him for the accident of his birth. All of them. He should have known that, had known it on some level, but he’d thought Einara had different feelings. Liked him. Needed him. Was amused by him. Something. What was she doing?“I’m down to a V a day,” he protested, still straining toward her. “You know that. I shouldn’t have kept the vials I didn’t drink—that was wrong of me. I could’ve hurt myself. But I just had to have them close.”She looked at him. “We’ve all heard your excuses, Kai.”Kai’s voice broke. “I’m getting better, I swear! I might even be fine if you cut me off.” It was hard to admit that, because he didn’t want to be cut off, not yet. But verdant hells, he needed out of the straitjacket, and he didn’t like the foreboding look on Svant’s face.The steward laughed. “Likely story. Svant, hop to it.”Svant looked unhappier than ever. “Have to?”“You heard our orders.”Svant glanced from the steward to Einara, who gazed impassively back. Then he went over to the corner where he’d abandoned the tool box. From it he took a pen-sized rod and what looked like a blowtorch.Shit. With a desperate effort, Kai broke free of Svesinov and staggered to his feet. He tried to lunge toward Einara, with no particular plan in mind—fall into her arms? Go to his knees and beg? But the steward’s strong arms slammed him back against the wall and pinned him there.Over Svesinov’s shoulder, Kai saw Svant light the blowtorch and hold something in the flame—the rod. He hadn’t believed the rumors that recalcitrant staff members sometimes got punishments much worse than cleaning duty. But now a deep-down shudder wracked him, his body already feeling what his mind refused to envision.He writhed in Svesinov’s arms and barely felt the bite of the straps. A visceral fear dizzied him, making his stomach turn over and his heart batter his ribs. “’Nara! You can’t do this!”Einara stepped into the center of the room. “Fir’n Director asks only that you become a useful tool for her purposes,” she said in the coldest, deadest voice Kai had ever heard from her. “She left the means up to me. In Feudal times, some lords branded their slaves with their initials or crest. In Harbour, it’s commonly done to livestock. A few Outers undergo it voluntarily as a form of body adornment, similar to your tattoos. They see it as a way to prove their imperviousness to pain.”Kai didn’t need to hear any more. He kicked out, trying to knock Svesinov down. But the man dodged this time and gave him a cuff on the side of the head that stunned him, sending him reeling against the wall.By the time he had his bearings again, Svant was closing on him, both men boxing him in. The tattooist had the rod in his hand, and Kai saw it was tipped with a medallion about the size of his fingernail, glowing red hot.It was carved with a single raised letter E.He didn’t understand, and then all at once he did. Her initial. Her mark. She was going to mark him.She was the one who wanted a useful tool.He sagged against the wall, knees buckling. Svesinov grabbed him in a fierce embrace and held him still for the advancing Svant. “Where?” he asked Einara.Einara stepped closer, examining Kai clinically. He could feel the heat of the branding iron, smell it in the air like fresh blood, and it made tears spring to his eyes. Still he forced himself to look straight at her, because he needed to understand. To know why.Her eyes didn’t relent. “Here,” she said, reaching between the two men to touch a spot at the base of Kai’s neck, between collarbone and right shoulder.“You’ll regret this.” The words came out in a snarl, a voice not his own. “You think this will make me useful? Cooperative? Not in ten fucking lifetimes.”Nothing made sense. He was already useful. They had a mutually beneficial partnership; he was even keeping a secret for her. Unless she’d only told him that “secret” to test him; unless everything she’d said and done was on Hulda’s orders.And he was the dumb sap who’d believed her. Stupid, stupid boy. Unworthy, underachieving fuck-up.“As you can see, the brand isn’t large,” Einara said in the terrible dead voice. “The pain will be brief, the damage limited, because we don’t wish to lower your value. Some of your patrons may not notice the mark at all.”Not fucking likely. But Kai was awash in the adrenaline of rage. His vision blurred; the mad pounding of his blood lifted him so high above himself that he dared hoped he wouldn’t feel the branding at all. “Just do it, then,” he said, and spat in her face. “I should never have trusted a fucking barbarian.”Einara wiped saliva from her cheek. “The Free Northmen also brand themselves, I’ve heard.” Her face stayed cool, but her voice wobbled a fraction. “Surely you can at least be as strong as they are.”The Free Northmen. What the fuck did they have to do with this? Freshly outraged, Kai didn’t take his eyes from her, and he caught the instant when the deadness fell from her face like a mask.Her mouth twisted. Her eyes glazed with horror, as if she could feel the branding iron herself.Nothing mattered but that face, that transformation. Kai was only faintly conscious now of Svesinov’s arms holding him fast, of the hot breath on his hair, or of Svant leaning in and saying something about minimizing the pain. They were distant landmarks on the borders of a world that had narrowed to Einara.Her face was all indifference again, but he was sure of what he’d seen. She was playing a part, and she had faltered on purpose. By mentioning the Northmen, she had deliberately reminded him of the secrets she kept from Hulda, the mad plans she’d told only to him.This wasn’t her idea. She was as much a prisoner and pawn as he was. And the best thing he could do for her, for both of them, was to play along.When the red-hot iron met his skin, Kai felt nothing at first. Only after he screamed did the pain come rushing in. It was a white-hot wave that drowned everything but the most immediate sensations: the sizzle and the sweet stench of burnt flesh; the rawness of his throat.The world lurched; time slowed to a crawl and then abruptly leapt forward. The brand was no longer touching his skin, yet the white walls of the room pulsed like burning embers: pain, pain, pain. His legs had gone to rubber, and he felt abjectly grateful for Svesinov’s strong arms holding him upright.Next thing he knew, he was huddled up on the floor, and something was trying to tear itself out of his throat. Choking? No, he was sobbing, or maybe retching. Whatever it was, his body was doing it without his cooperation, and the sickening smell of his own charred flesh hung in the air.Kai rocked in place as voices spoke above him, a jumble of meaningless syllables. Somehow his eyes found Einara, so calm and cool and perfect, and he yearned to go and let her comfort him, but not yet, maybe not ever. So, as she looked back, he sent a message with his eyes: I know.
Einara felt faint. They’d left the greenhouse brothel far behind, but she could swear she still smelled the overripe mingling of flowers, incense, and decay.
Hulda handed her a thermos. “Have some tea, dear. You don’t look well at all.”
Einara knew the tea might contain sap or something stronger, but she had no energy to refuse. The warm liquid steadied her a fraction, and she tried to focus on the skyscrapers floating past outside the window of the mag-van. They were in the cluttered delivery vehicle that Svesinov used to fetch large supply shipments.
She felt intense gratitude that they hadn’t had to return the long way, by tram or on foot, because she wasn’t sure she could have walked more than a few steps with Hulda’s possessive hand on her arm. The possibilities for clawing the director’s eyes out, escaping, and throwing herself off a building would have proved too tempting.
Hulda knew that, of course. The woman was considerate, in her way.
“Topaz,” Einara said as they approached Ring One, the surrounding buildings growing older and more ornate. It was the first word she’d spoken since the greenhouse. “Svesinov must have told you about their deal. Will you punish him?”
The old woman shook her head. She seemed neither angry nor smug at having caught Einara, only as calm as if she were relaxing with her knitting after a long day.
“Svesinov’s a sentimental fool,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice so that the steward, who was driving, wouldn’t hear. “But, since he did the right thing and came clean to me, neither will be punished. Topaz and I will work out a visitation schedule for his poor bastard child.” After a moment, she added, “In case you’re wondering, you won’t be punished, either.”
Dread began to worm its way through the thick blanket of Einara’s stupor. “I know you,” she said.
“And I know you.” Hulda reached out, absent-mindedly, and tidied a strand of hair that had escaped from Einara’s braid. “Ever since you asked me about the Northmen, I’ve been waiting for you to do something like this. I only thought you might be smarter and subtler about it.”
Recognizing the words as provocation, Einara bit down on her angry reply. “We have a difference of opinion, Fir’n,” she said evenly. “You think these Northmen are useless troublemakers. I disagree.”
“My dear, I don’t think there’s much we do agree on, including our ultimate goals.” Hulda gave the braid a jerk that made Einara wince. “But I’ve always known what you are—a feral animal that fouls and destroys any cage you give it. I only hoped I could tame you into something useful.”
Einara swallowed hard. They seemed to be taking the route back to the Brothel, but it was well within Hulda’s powers to have Svesinov slit her throat and dump her body in the Wastes. Perhaps they would torture her for the Verses first. Hulda claimed not to want the codes that supposedly unlocked Redda’s infrastructure, but who would leave such a weapon on the table?
The realization turned Einara ice cold, her fingertips going numb. Still, she managed not to tremble as she raised her eyes to the Director’s and said, “And now?”
Hulda looked back at her. “Are you hoping I’ll give up on you? Offer you the punishment you actually deserve for what you did” — and now she did lower her voice— “to my nephew?”
You failed to tame me. “I’m not afraid,” Einara said, controlling her voice with effort.
Hulda patted the younger woman’s hand, her face relaxing into a fond smile. “My dear, is that really true?”
The woman had her number. Einara knew she was still the coward who had murdered Irin Dartán rather than risk the possibility of her own exposure and execution. She still wanted to live—for her plans, for her vengeance. She wanted to come face to face with Tilrey Bronn and best him at his own game.
And, if she plumbed deep into her heart, she had to admit she also wanted to live for soft, foolish reasons—for instance, to keep having teatime with Kai and Bors, two Oslovs whom she’d managed not to despise. To listen to them bicker while the snow flew outside. To feel Kai’s embrace and pretend she was a normal girl who could find comfort in a pair of strong arms. Even Hulda’s company hadn’t been unpleasant, most of the time. Einara had a life at the Brothel, full of routines that were relaxingly the same year after year. She wanted to live that life. She wanted another ten years, another year, another month, another ten-day, another day, another hour.
Did Hulda know that? Did she want her to beg? Einara set her jaw the way Colonel Thibault had trained her to do. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Hulda’s sticklike fingers caressed Einara’s hand. “You may not be tamed, little fierce one, but I think you can be trained. Believe me, if I were going to harm you, I would have done it a long time ago.”
Councillor Lindblom knew what she was doing with a strap-on, and she had stamina that few men could match. The Painted Boy was down on all fours on the carpet, where he couldn’t see the bedside clock, but he suspected they’d been going for twenty minutes or so. Despite her careful lubrication, the dildo she was using on him was huge, and each thrust was starting to burn.
When she reached for his cock, the Painted Boy flinched away. He was already achingly hard, and her teasing was infernal. The clamps she’d fastened to his nipples swung with each thrust, sending shivers of itching sensation down his spine. “Can’t hold out much longer, Fir’n.”
Davita Lindblom gave him a smart smack on the flank, right on top of the light welts she’d laid there earlier. “What have I told you about whining?”
The Painted Boy winced, but the pain was still on the verge of pleasure. “I’m not! I just—can’t.” He raised his hips to take her thrusts deeper, tears pricking his eyes. Being fucked by a blunt, insensitive object always made him feel like an object himself—made for patrons’ pleasure—and it always made him come harder. He didn’t particularly want to think about why.
“You’re a dreadful whiner. You know that.” Davita seized hold of his cock and gave it a caress, followed by a slap that made the Painted Boy gasp. She tweaked the clamp attached to one sensitive nipple, and he moaned. “You’re still that spoiled little schoolboy, sweetheart, relying on a pretty face to get you out of anything uncomfortable.”
The Painted Boy barely suppressed a sob. “I am not.”
“I’m not insulting you. It’s part of your charm.”
He knew better than to argue, so he braced himself on his strong arms and offered his ass to the thrusts and let the tears flow down his cheeks. Inside him, though, a voice continued to insist with more and more confidence: That’s not you anymore. You’re thirty-two years old. You can get by on a vial a day now, maybe less. You have two friends who’ve seen you at your worst and still don’t hate you. You’re learning a trade. You could be a real person.
The voice was Einara’s voice, and he imagined she was the one who was perched on his back ferociously fucking him, even as she whispered in his ear. Einara could ride him even harder than Lindblom, of that he was sure. She would be ruthless, too, but he would love every second. Einara would tear him down exactly as much as he needed to be torn down, then build him up again. She knew who he was, both his weakness and his strength.
When the Councillor finally let him come, the intensity of the spasm swept all thoughts away. The Painted Boy was dimly conscious of his seed spilling on the carpet, and he had a fleeting memory of the time Hulda had punished him by making him spend a day on the clean-up crew that dealt with such things. Then Davita slid the wooden phallus out of him, inch by agonizing inch, and he returned to his body, groaning in mingled ecstasy and humiliation.
The Councillor helped him up onto the bed and stretched him out on the enormous simulated polar bear pelt. While he rested from his labors, she put on one of her florid Harbourer robes and fetched the tea cart she’d ordered from outside. She liked to fuss over him and feed him, raising a tumbler to his lips and then a cookie, as if he were an invalid.
“You love this, don’t you?” she said, tousling his hair as he chewed. “You must have been such a mama’s boy.”
The Painted Boy didn’t want to discuss his mother, who was a proud Upstart. He curled up on Davita’s bosom, nuzzling the silk of her robe. She hadn’t removed the clamps, and the contact irritated his aching nipples in a way that was almost arousing again. “What can I say, Fir’n? Women have always wanted to take care of me.”
“Because you’re always the prettiest boy in the room.” She stroked his earlobe. “And you know it, vain creature.”
The Painted Boy had an idea. “Am I the best-looking you’ve ever had?” he asked.
Davita laughed—a low chuckle that stirred his cock again. “You’re in the top five. Beyond that, I don’t play favorites.”
“Yes, you do. I know you do. A connoisseur like you?” He tugged himself from her grip and put a fatuous pout on his face. “Who’ve you ever had who’s hotter than me, Fir’n? Is it that stuck-up kettle boy, the one who lives with Fir Gádden? Tilrey Bronn?”
The amusement vanished abruptly from Davita’s expression. “Who told you about him?”
“Everybody knows who he is. He lived with two General Magistrates from two opposite parties.” When Bors said Tilrey Bronn spent regular nights with Lindblom, the Painted Boy hadn’t thought much of it. Just one more bit of data from Bors’s near-stalking pursuit of Tilrey. But the Councillor’s sudden seriousness made him think this was a connection worth exploring.
He kept his tone light, unthreatening. “Bronn’s a Skeinsha, and yet they let him sit in the Council chamber and speak as a proxy for Fir Councillor Gádden, almost like he was the Councillor. It’s because they’re all in love with him, or because he’s got dirt on all of them, right? Nobody knows which.”
Davita took a businesslike sip of tea. “You shouldn’t spread gossip.”
“What else can I do? I don’t get to sit in the Council chamber. I’m just a poor whore, spending my days waiting for you Fira to come pay attention to me.” The Painted Boy put on his pout again. “You’ve had Bronn, haven’t you? I can tell. You think he’s special, just like they all do. What makes him more special than me?”
His petulance seemed to set the Councillor at ease; she flicked his bangs out of his eyes. “It’s not a contest, darling, and jealousy doesn’t become you. But if you must know, he’s also in my top five.”
Bors was right. The Painted Boy kept the peeved expression on his face, playing the vapid creature she wanted him to be. “So, what’s the deal? He’s no younger than me. Does he have a magic cock? Magic hands? Magic mouth?”
Davita’s face had gone dreamy. “Some of each. In bed, he’s rather like you—I do have a type. Delightfully submissive. Suffers beautifully.” She leaned in and gave the Painted Boy a maternal kiss. “But you shouldn’t compare yourself to someone who’s completely unlike you in every other way. From what I gather, books and studying aren’t your forte, and politics even less.”
So she knew Bronn had political ambitions. Was she helping him fulfill them? The Painted Boy filed away the remark to tell Bors and Einara. If he was careful, he might be able to coax Davita, session by session, into telling him more. She seemed to enjoy his “jealousy.”
“So he’s bookish,” he said derisively. “That sounds like an incredible turn-on. What does he do, read to you in bed?”
“Sometimes. You’re such a lout, you know that? You would have made a terrible Upstart.” And, with a happy laugh, the Councillor pulled him down on his back and gave him a long, leisurely kiss, her hand reaching for his cock. “I think it’s time I got fucked now, darling.”
Kai was still smiling, just a little, when he returned to his room from the showers. He was too sore to have a spring in his step, but the endorphins from two orgasms made his body pleasantly light, and now he had something to tell Einara when he saw her later this evening.
He lay down for a nap, hoping to get some rest before then, but before he could close his eyes, the door burst open. Svant and Svesinov stood tall in the doorway, both of them grim-faced. Svant carried something—a tool box?
“Get up,” the Brothel steward barked. “Spot inspection.”
“Okay, okay.” Kai despised the man, but obedience was a reflex at this point. He hauled himself up—ouch—and stood with his back to the door and his hands against the wall, legs spread.
Svesinov frisked Kai in a businesslike way, tugging his flimsy sleepwear aside when necessary. Behind them, Svant was moving around—searching the room, Kai supposed. He would probably find the cache of vials in the hole in the mattress, but Kai couldn’t bring himself to worry. Anything they confiscated, Einara would return to him with interest. She took care of him.
“Here we go,” Svant said, sounding almost unhappy. “Six and a third.”
“Let me see.” Svesinov went to examine the tattooist’s find.
Kai stayed where he was, knowing it was better to look cooperative. Every month or so, Hulda complained to Svesinov about the staff hoarding their tips, and the steward made a show of enforcing the rules. At worst, Kai might be put on cleaning duty for a day or so, but Einara could probably get him out of that, too.
When two pairs of hands seized him from behind, yanking him away from the wall, he was so surprised he fought back. Both men were on him, trying to pin his arms. Kai landed a kick on Svesinov’s shin that sent the steward staggering backward, then flailed himself free of Svant. “What the fuck?” He’d been cooperating.
But Svesinov was back and angry, and Kai couldn’t control his instinct for self-defense. He landed a wild punch on the steward’s jaw and went on struggling until together they got him on the floor.
Svant sat on him, clamping his wrists together. “Just lie still,” he muttered, his hot breath on Kai’s face. But Kai needed to see what the steward was up to. He twisted desperately and saw Svesinov fetching something from a corner—a smock covered with nylon straps.
A straitjacket. A fucking straitjacket like they used on addicts in moral rehab so they wouldn’t bother anyone with the spasms of their withdrawal. Kai had seen it in a dramastream: a sweet-drowned man lying trussed in a tiny cell, flailing and crying out for mercy, unheard. The stream was a cautionary tale of sap abuse, but for him it only sent the message to stay the fuck out of moral rehab.
He went limp all at once, panting, knowing his resistance had been a stupid mistake. “What’re you doing? I’m not—I’m not like that. Ask Einara. I’ve cut down my dose. I’ve been good. Ask her!”
Ignoring his pleas, the two men sat him up and forced his arms into the elongated sleeves, then buckled them firmly against his chest. The device was so confining that struggle was useless, but not struggling set Kai’s teeth on edge. Maybe Svesinov was taking revenge for the kick and the punch, being extra harsh on him. But why had they brought the contraption in the first place?
“Get Einara,” he insisted, trying to keep his voice steady. “This is all a mistake—she’ll tell you. She gave me those vials on Hulda’s orders. She knows!”
The steward took his time buckling the last strap, at the small of Kai’s back, which cinched the whole jacket punishingly tight. Then he swung Kai around to face the open door.
Einara stood there, looking down at him with an expression of mild interest. She wore all white, her usual braid pinned high like a crown. Her eyes were the blue of the frozen ocean.
“They’re here on my orders, Kai,” she said. “You’ve proved yourself unworthy of managing a sap allowance, so we’re going to clean out your system and see if that makes you easier to handle.”
“I—what? But you—” Then Kai was struggling again, wildly and hopelessly. He tried to stand up, to go to her, as if it would matter.
Svesinov shoved him back down on his knees, hard. “You’re making it worse for yourself, Strutter.”
They still hated him for the accident of his birth. All of them. He should have known that, had known it on some level, but he’d thought Einara had different feelings. Liked him. Needed him. Was amused by him. Something. What was she doing?
“I’m down to a V a day,” he protested, still straining toward her. “You know that. I shouldn’t have kept the vials I didn’t drink—that was wrong of me. I could’ve hurt myself. But I just had to have them close.”
She looked at him. “We’ve all heard your excuses, Kai.”
Kai’s voice broke. “I’m getting better, I swear! I might even be fine if you cut me off.” It was hard to admit that, because he didn’t want to be cut off, not yet. But verdant hells, he needed out of the straitjacket, and he didn’t like the foreboding look on Svant’s face.
The steward laughed. “Likely story. Svant, hop to it.”
Svant looked unhappier than ever. “Have to?”
“You heard our orders.”
Svant glanced from the steward to Einara, who gazed impassively back. Then he went over to the corner where he’d abandoned the tool box. From it he took a pen-sized rod and what looked like a blowtorch.
Shit. With a desperate effort, Kai broke free of Svesinov and staggered to his feet. He tried to lunge toward Einara, with no particular plan in mind—fall into her arms? Go to his knees and beg? But the steward’s strong arms slammed him back against the wall and pinned him there.
Over Svesinov’s shoulder, Kai saw Svant light the blowtorch and hold something in the flame—the rod. He hadn’t believed the rumors that recalcitrant staff members sometimes got punishments much worse than cleaning duty. But now a deep-down shudder wracked him, his body already feeling what his mind refused to envision.
He writhed in Svesinov’s arms and barely felt the bite of the straps. A visceral fear dizzied him, making his stomach turn over and his heart batter his ribs. “’Nara! You can’t do this!”
Einara stepped into the center of the room. “Fir’n Director asks only that you become a useful tool for her purposes,” she said in the coldest, deadest voice Kai had ever heard from her. “She left the means up to me. In Feudal times, some lords branded their slaves with their initials or crest. In Harbour, it’s commonly done to livestock. A few Outers undergo it voluntarily as a form of body adornment, similar to your tattoos. They see it as a way to prove their imperviousness to pain.”
Kai didn’t need to hear any more. He kicked out, trying to knock Svesinov down. But the man dodged this time and gave him a cuff on the side of the head that stunned him, sending him reeling against the wall.
By the time he had his bearings again, Svant was closing on him, both men boxing him in. The tattooist had the rod in his hand, and Kai saw it was tipped with a medallion about the size of his fingernail, glowing red hot.
It was carved with a single raised letter E.
He didn’t understand, and then all at once he did. Her initial. Her mark. She was going to mark him.
She was the one who wanted a useful tool.
He sagged against the wall, knees buckling. Svesinov grabbed him in a fierce embrace and held him still for the advancing Svant. “Where?” he asked Einara.
Einara stepped closer, examining Kai clinically. He could feel the heat of the branding iron, smell it in the air like fresh blood, and it made tears spring to his eyes. Still he forced himself to look straight at her, because he needed to understand. To know why.
Her eyes didn’t relent. “Here,” she said, reaching between the two men to touch a spot at the base of Kai’s neck, between collarbone and right shoulder.
“You’ll regret this.” The words came out in a snarl, a voice not his own. “You think this will make me useful? Cooperative? Not in ten fucking lifetimes.”
Nothing made sense. He was already useful. They had a mutually beneficial partnership; he was even keeping a secret for her. Unless she’d only told him that “secret” to test him; unless everything she’d said and done was on Hulda’s orders.
And he was the dumb sap who’d believed her. Stupid, stupid boy. Unworthy, underachieving fuck-up.
“As you can see, the brand isn’t large,” Einara said in the terrible dead voice. “The pain will be brief, the damage limited, because we don’t wish to lower your value. Some of your patrons may not notice the mark at all.”
Not fucking likely. But Kai was awash in the adrenaline of rage. His vision blurred; the mad pounding of his blood lifted him so high above himself that he dared hoped he wouldn’t feel the branding at all. “Just do it, then,” he said, and spat in her face. “I should never have trusted a fucking barbarian.”
Einara wiped saliva from her cheek. “The Free Northmen also brand themselves, I’ve heard.” Her face stayed cool, but her voice wobbled a fraction. “Surely you can at least be as strong as they are.”
The Free Northmen. What the fuck did they have to do with this? Freshly outraged, Kai didn’t take his eyes from her, and he caught the instant when the deadness fell from her face like a mask.
Her mouth twisted. Her eyes glazed with horror, as if she could feel the branding iron herself.
Nothing mattered but that face, that transformation. Kai was only faintly conscious now of Svesinov’s arms holding him fast, of the hot breath on his hair, or of Svant leaning in and saying something about minimizing the pain. They were distant landmarks on the borders of a world that had narrowed to Einara.
Her face was all indifference again, but he was sure of what he’d seen. She was playing a part, and she had faltered on purpose. By mentioning the Northmen, she had deliberately reminded him of the secrets she kept from Hulda, the mad plans she’d told only to him.
This wasn’t her idea. She was as much a prisoner and pawn as he was. And the best thing he could do for her, for both of them, was to play along.
When the red-hot iron met his skin, Kai felt nothing at first. Only after he screamed did the pain come rushing in. It was a white-hot wave that drowned everything but the most immediate sensations: the sizzle and the sweet stench of burnt flesh; the rawness of his throat.
The world lurched; time slowed to a crawl and then abruptly leapt forward. The brand was no longer touching his skin, yet the white walls of the room pulsed like burning embers: pain, pain, pain. His legs had gone to rubber, and he felt abjectly grateful for Svesinov’s strong arms holding him upright.
Next thing he knew, he was huddled up on the floor, and something was trying to tear itself out of his throat. Choking? No, he was sobbing, or maybe retching. Whatever it was, his body was doing it without his cooperation, and the sickening smell of his own charred flesh hung in the air.
Kai rocked in place as voices spoke above him, a jumble of meaningless syllables. Somehow his eyes found Einara, so calm and cool and perfect, and he yearned to go and let her comfort him, but not yet, maybe not ever. So, as she looked back, he sent a message with his eyes: I know.