Slave To The Crown - A (Kinky) Fantasy Thriller

[mark sessnatz]

Author's note: Hello! I'm back! Sorry to have been so quiet on here for so long. I got caught up for some time in a long succession of very big life changes. You know how it is. Glad to see this thriving little community is still here!

Anyway, things have finally settled down a bit and I've gotten back to work on a couple of stories. Mainly this one: a romance of spies and intrigue in a far-off (imaginary) kingdom. It starts off as kind of a slow burn with a lot of setup, but it's still all a big excuse for some juicy torture and CP scenes later on LOL. Excited to share, and hope you all enjoy.

CHAPTER I
​

In the innermost Council Chamber of the Royal Palace of Merdaine, at a most disreputable hour of the night, a meeting was conducted in whispers.

"How certain are you of the veracity of these rumors?”

The woman speaking was Lusianna, Crown Princess and acting monarch of Merdaine; a fair-haired beauty one or two years shy of her thirtieth. She had high, aristocratic cheekbones and fiercely intelligent green eyes that she fixed on the gray-faced man opposite her at the table. The man, Lord Durand, her Defense Minister, steepled his fingers pensively.

"If I were less certain, my Lady," coughed Durand, "I would not have brought the matter to you."

They were interrupted by the heavy timber door opening and a bleary-eyed page announcing the latest arrival.

“The Lady Margot of Ossolin, as requested, your Majesty,” said the page. He bowed low as Lady Margot entered, straightening her black velvet tunic. Lady Margot was a tall woman, athletically built, the same age as the Princess and every bit as strikingly beautiful. Her ebony-brown hair was pulled back in a simple, practical braid and her sparkling blue eyes were cast downward in ceremonial humility.

"At your service, my Lady," said Margot, taking a knee on the gleaming marble floor. “And apologies for my lateness. I’m not used to dressing at such a late hour.”

Seeing her, Princess Lusianna smiled her first genuine smile of the night.

"No harm done,” said Lusianna warmly. “Join us at the table, Lady Margot. We have much to discuss."

She waited until Margot had settled into a high-backed chair to her right before continuing.

“Lord Durand believes a plot is brewing in Vaatar to assassinate me,” she told Margot in a voice tinged with scorn. Margot’s brow furrowed with concern.

Vaatar, a powerful kingdom several hundred miles south across the sea, had been bitterly at war with Merdaine for generations over control of the maritime trade routes. The notion was wholly plausible, yet Lusianna seemed skeptical. She loved when Lusianna was skeptical, the way she wrinkled her nose as if the information were a bad smell.

“Who is your informant?” Margot asked, turning to Durand.

“My most reliable contact across the water,” said Durand, hunching forward anxiously.

“In the Port of Khajhann?” asked Lusianna.
"Correct."

"He must hear a dozen such rumors a day from every rum-soaked trader in the three continents!"

"No doubt you are right, my Lady. He wouldn’t have brought it to my attention were it not from a source of particular consequence."

"Someone high up?" asked Margot bluntly.

"Near to the Queen of Vaatar herself."

Lusianna sat back, chewing pensively on a fingernail. Margot knew her well enough to recognize her disbelief for the performance it was, concealing her fear.

"It would not be the first attempt on my life," she said matter-of-factly, but did not look up.

"No, my Lady."

A heavy silence hung over the room. Durand cleared his throat.

“If we are to take this matter with appropriate seriousness, we will simply need more intelligence. All we have are the boasts of a loose-tongued bureaucrat. We need place, time, methods, accomplices, details that as of now we can only guess at.”

Margot tensed, understanding Durand’s implication.

Margot of Ossolin, in addition to being a peer of the Court and the eldest daughter of a noble Merdanite family, was the most trusted and celebrated agent of the Royal Messengers’ Division, official espionage and intelligence service to the Crown. She was renowned among the nobility and military for her stealth and cunning, for her effortless fraternization with the highest strata of enemy societies and her efficacy in gathering state secrets by means of charm and ruthlessness alike.

She looked up, meeting Lusianna’s gaze, the gaze that cut through and warmly enveloped her in equal measure.

“You know, of course, Lady Margot,” Lusianna said, holding her voice steady with Herculean effort, “that I would never order you to do this.”

“Your Highness,” Margot responded, “it would be my honor.”

* * *​

That night, they lay together in the Princess’s sumptuous silk sheets, for what each of them knew could be the last time. Margot wrapped Lusianna up in herself as though that would protect her from anything. Their legs entangled, arms entwined, savoring every point of contact between their naked bodies. Their hands roamed hungrily, exploring every contour of each other’s thighs, shoulders, hips and breasts, committing the shapes and textures to memory, should that become all they had. They rejoiced in the warmth of each other, the softness, the smells of sweat. When at last they relaxed into each other, Margot’s head still spinning, she noticed that Lusianna was crying.

“Damn that pallid toad, Durand,” she sniffled, “for making you do this!”

“I volunteered,” said Margot, brushing a tear from Lusianna’s cheek.

“You were coerced!”

“Patently untrue,” Margot replied. “I take coercion from no one but you, Highness.”

Lusianna playfully smacked her on top of her head.

“Don’t you ‘Highness’ me in bed!” She smiled, but her eyes still glistened. “Don’t go, Margot. The Court of Vaatar is a vicious, brutal place.”

“I should fit right in then,” said Margot sardonically.

“It’s not a joke!” Lusianna sobbed, “If anything should happen to you, I would wish they had killed me after all.”

Lusianna’s face, inches from Margot’s own, began to blur in front of her eyes. She clasped the princess’s silk-soft hand.

“Then you understand why I have to go.”

They held one another until daybreak.

* * *​

The plan, as constructed jointly by the Defense Ministry and the Royal Messengers, was straightforward in the details, but the margin for failure was catastrophic. For once, Margot’s usual tactics of high-society infiltration and flattery would not be available. The Vaatari aristocracy was a totally closed system, and most of Queen Savra’s royal advisors were her own aunts, uncles, and cousins. The only other people with sufficient proximity to the innermost halls of power were the wholly opposite caste: the Queen’s personal slaves.

The Messengers, through their whisper network, located a shipment of slaves, already bought and paid for, bound to depart in ten days for the Vaatari Royal Palace. (Slave trading was outlawed in Merdaine, but some of the southern port towns had sovereign jurisdiction, and the trans-oceanic flesh trade was a lucrative one.) Undercover representatives of the Defense Ministry met with the presiding flesh trader and presented him with an immaculately forged receipt of sale for a female slave, twenty-eight years of age, matching Margot’s description. For a handsome sum of gold, she would take the place of one of his own stock on the voyage, and for an additional payment, he would ask no further questions.

Once in Vaatar, Margot would spend six weeks as a servant in the Vaatari Palace, using her proximity to gather as much intel as she could about if, when and where, there was to be an attempt on the Princess’s life. At the end of those six weeks, an extraction team from the Royal Messengers would rendezvous with Margot, using the canal that runs underneath the Palace. She would feign an accidental death and they would secret her out of the city and back home to report her findings.

Those who knew Margot of Ossolin by reputation attributed her success to her charisma or her ruthlessness, or even simply her looks, but they were wrong, in emphasis if not in fact. She possessed those qualities certainly, abundantly, but they were tools. Underneath all of that, the thing that never changed was her sheer, unwavering determination.

If she was discovered on this mission, she would die. That alone was enough motivation, but if she failed, if she was killed or found out or failed to make it back to Merdaine, Lusianna would die. That simple fact, no matter the perils that faced her, would make Margot unstoppable.

 

[Loinclothslave]

Ok that’s an intriguing start! Mmmm, I was definitely hoping Margot would only be able to infiltrate Vaater through slavery! I think that’s me all in for this story now!

Is it possible to please use a larger font? Some us depraved kinksters are a bit older, and the smaller font is more challenging than it was 20 years ago.

I eagerly await the next installment, I’m sure Margot will look great in chains! Thank you.

 

[Fossy]

Thanks for bringing this to our attention Loin', a good start indeed, and we all love a little espionage ... right! Loads of potential here for tortuous torment and distraught emotion. Reading about Margot and Lusianna I was instantly reminded of Ekaterina and Grace. I have bookmarked this and look forward to reading the next chapter.

 

[malins]

Mainly this one: a romance of spies and intrigue in a far-off (imaginary) kingdom. It starts off as kind of a slow burn with a lot of setup, but it's still all a big excuse for some juicy torture and CP scenes later on LOL.

exactly how I like it

 

[mark sessnatz]

CHAPTER II​

On the day of departure, the southern port town of Lower Emmerly was soaked by a cold and incessant rain. As two armed soldiers escorted Margot through the narrow, dripping streets, it seemed to her that all the color, along with the warmth, had been leached from the world.

To anyone who knew Margot from the Royal Court, she would have been unrecognizable. In place of her fine black velvet, she wore a coarse, rope-belted shift dress of threadbare sackcloth. Her dark hair hung loose and unkempt, plastered to her forehead and neck by the rain. She walked in thin rawhide sandals through which torrents of dirty water soaked her exposed, freezing feet and her wrists were bound tightly behind her back with thick, rough cords. Her head, normally held high and proud, was bowed low and her shoulders hunched, partly in defense of the cold and rain, partly in a deliberate performance of anonymity and submission befitting a slave. She was shivering. That part was real.

They were met at the docks by two men standing at the end of the quay in front of their cargo ship: a long, low, cramped and profoundly weathered old brig. The first man, the slave trader they had paid off and captain of the ship, was a pallid, potbellied man with beady eyes and thinning hair the color of wet straw. As they approached, he looked from Margot to the soldiers and furrowed his brow quizzically, but if he had any nagging suspicions he kept them to himself, merely coughed wetly and made a mark in his logbook before nodding to his partner.

The other man was a head taller and considerably broader with a shaved head, a thick black beard and a stony expression. The muscle, thought Margot. Instinctively her eyes scanned him for weak points. He had skinny legs for his size, she noticed, which would make him top-heavy. He'd be slower than her, and the way he squinted despite the gloom betrayed slight nearsightedness. She mentally cataloged all this information, though she realized she could likely do nothing with it. Whatever happened, she would have to force herself to play defenseless and deferential for the sake of the mission. In many ways, that was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do.

Each man carried conspicuously on his belt a short but heavy leather whip of a type usually used to drive cattle. If they raised it against her, she couldn't permit herself even to disarm them, let alone fight back. It dawned on her that for the time being, the only material difference between herself and any real slave existed purely inside her mind. Her body was the property of Vaatar until the mission was done, until Lusianna was safe. She gritted her teeth. All for Lusianna.

The big brute’s massive hand closed painfully around Margot’s bare upper arm. Using an alarmingly dull dagger, he sawed through the ropes that bound her hands. Before she could enjoy any sense of relief, however, he produced a set of grim, heavy iron manacles which he closed tightly around one of her wrists, then the other. He grabbed the short length of chain and half-led, half-dragged Margot up the slippery gangplank into the damp, foul-smelling darkness of the lower deck.

Margot stumbled inside, dripping rainwater, nearly choking on the overwhelming stench inside the cargo hold. Two dozen filthy, ragged and miserable people were bound for servitude in Khajhann alongside her. Most, she noticed, were women, her own age or younger, but there were a few very young men, barely more than boys it seemed. All were chained as she was. Some lay on the pockmarked wooden deck, some sat with their backs against the slimy timbers of the wall. None made eye contact. Tiptoeing awkwardly around her fellow passengers, Margot found a space at the very back of the hold big enough for her to sit against the wall and settle in.

The passage of time was meaningless in the perpetual tarry gloom below deck, so she didn’t know if it was minutes or hours before she felt the violent lurch of the ship setting sail. Somewhere in the dark she heard someone weeping and she wondered if it was Lusianna.

***​

For what Margot estimated was a day or two, the rain continued to pound on the deck above. It made her head hurt. The day they emerged into clearer skies and calmer waters was the first day Margot slept since the mainland. They were fed stale bread and bitter nuts twice a day and served warm, coppery tasting drinking water out of the same barrel. The crew mostly avoided them, except once a day when the captain and his bookkeeper came down for “inventory”, which simply meant verifying that they were all still alive. Margot kept her head down and did and said nothing to attract attention to herself. She tried to rest and she tried to stretch her aching, cramping limbs. Somewhere around the sixth day, she couldn’t stand the solitude of her own mind any longer, so, as they chewed their gray bread crusts, she turned to her neighbor and asked her name.

The girl flinched in surprise at the sound of a friendly human voice. She was a pale, thin waif with red hair hacked into a boyish bob, her frayed cotton blouse hanging loosely off her bony shoulders.

“My old mistress called me ‘Bun’,” she said softly without looking up. “ ‘Cause I worked in the kitchens.”

“You were a baker?” Margot asked. The girl nodded.

“I helped Cook with the bread,” she said.

“What happened?”

“The family sold me off when the Mistress died,” she said simply. “One too many mouths to feed, I s’pose” A heavy silence fell as Margot’s stomach turned at the callousness of it all. It was Bun who spoke again.

“You have a name?”

“Sort of,” said Margot, recalling her cover story. “I worked in the garden–”

She chased Lusianna through the tall, sculpted hedgerows of the palace grounds, laughing. The warm spring sunshine tickled their faces and blossoms fell into their hair. They were so much younger.

“ –My Lady called me ‘Petal.’”

They lay in the grass. Lusianna plucked a flower from the air and placed it neatly on the end of Margot’s nose.


“Now you’re my pretty little Petal,” she proclaimed. Margot snorted with laughter and the flower blew away.

“You look like you miss her,” remarked Bun. She was facing Margot now. “She must’ve been good to you.”

Margot realized she was tearing up. She wiped her face, cursing her lack of control.

“She was,” said Margot evasively. “Was yours?”

Bun seemed to sink into herself. She shook her head.

“Not really,” she answered sadly. “She beat me for burning the tea cakes.”

Margot frowned. “For what?”

Bun shifted herself around in her few feet of space and lifted her baggy shirt up over her head to show Margot her bare back. Her skin from shoulders to waist was marked by a dozen or so thin, pale scars. Without thinking, Margot reached out and ran a finger along the length of one.

“I ruined dessert. She had dinner guests over and she made me take all me clothes off right there in the dining room and stand there while she thrashed me. It hurt awful. I cried in front of everybody.”

“Bun, I’m...sorry,” said Margot.

“Kind of you to say, Miss Petal,” said Bun, shrugging and pulling her top back on. “But it's no matter. She’s gone, and the stripes don't hurt anymore."

Margot couldn't think of what to say. Bun just seemed relieved to have someone to open up to.

"They said we've been bought by a Queen," Bun continued. "I hope she'll be kind to us."

"I hope so too," Margot sighed.

***

They didn't talk very much over the next few days, which was fine for Margot because she had very little fictional backstory to go on, but it was a boon to both of them simply to know that they'd made a connection, an ally even, in this hellish pit. It made them each feel a tiny bit more human again.

Several nights later, the men came.

It was, by Margot’s reckoning, the middle of the night, and the ship had entered choppy waters. She was roused from a seasick doze by malevolent laughter and heavy, oafish footsteps as the captain's big bearded colleague and three other crewmen were stomped clumsily through the hold. The stench of sour rum wafted off them in sickening waves. One hit his head on a rafter and the others laughed at him.

Margot tensed and pressed herself up against the wall, slipping into the shadows as much as possible, her eyes tracking the sailors' every move.

The ship pitched and heaved while the men prowled drunkenly through its belly, hands groping at the darkness, hoping to find flesh. The one who had a missing tooth clapped the one who had a bruised chin on the shoulder and pointed eagerly toward Bun and Margot’s corner. Grunting with the effort of walking in a straight line, all four men advanced on them. As Margot watched, frozen, they descended like starving dogs onto poor Bun.

Two of the men grabbed her arms and heaved her violently to her feet. She squirmed and struggled feebly in their grasp but even in their inebriated state she was far too small and thin to evade them. They forcibly bent the girl over a heavy wooden crate and roughly tore off her frayed and faded skirts. Margot noticed, feeling sickened, that the scars on the girl's back continued onto her buttocks. The brutes closed in around their prey and undid their belt buckles, lowering their trousers.

Margot forced herself to shut her eyes and turn over to face the wall. The sounds of it assaulted her ears– the wed thudding of flesh on flesh; the sailors' frenzied panting and cruel jeering; Bun's soft, pitiful whimpering. All the while, waves crashed against the sides of the brig. Every instinct Margot had screamed at her to choke the brutes where they stood. She tensed every muscle, lying so still she might have been in rigor mortis.

"Help me...please help me...please...please…" Bun was pleading desperately but her voice was almost a whisper. She knew that nobody was listening.

Margot covered her ears, shaking with the effort of restraining herself. She could kill them. She should kill them. She didn’t have that choice. The burning anger condensed into burning hot tears.

“please…please…aAH!” Bun cried out in pain as the man raping her slapped her violently on the bottom.

In seconds, Margot was behind the man. She threw her wrist chain over his head and dragged him, choking, by his neck, out of Bun and down onto the sodden timbers. Red-faced and gasping for air, he squirmed on the deck like a dying carp, trousers still down around his ankles. His shocked and enraged accomplices surrounded Margot. Missing Tooth and Bruised Face grabbed her and pinned her roughly against a support beam. She didn’t struggle or fight them. She’d gone too far already, and she inwardly cursed herself for her recklessness.

The Bearded One loomed over her, his breath hot and wet on her face. She glared defiantly back at him. His hand went to his belt.

“You’re gonna regret that, meat.” he growled, the first full sentence she’d heard him speak. He took his whip in his massive hand and raised it over his head.

“MISTER ULRICH!” shouted a gravelly voice. “What are you sodden dogs doing to my merchandise?” The Giant, Ulrich, stepped back, snapping to attention as the Captain limped down into the hold, beady eyes scanning the scene. He glanced from the man on the floor to Bun, still hunched and half-naked.

“It attacked us, sir,” Ulrich replied, gesturing at Margo with the whip handle. “I was about to punish it.”

The Captain strode up to Ulrich and stabbed his massive chest with a stubby finger.

“Listen, you great braindead boulder–if this were any old cargo of roughnecked rubes for the copper mines, you could do what you like with them, but these slaves are the property of the Queen of Vaatar! She can damage them all she likes once she’s got them but I won’t have it happen on my watch. I’ll take it out of your wages if I have to.”

Ulrich inhaled heavily, nostrils flaring, then shrank back, lowering his arm. He waited until the Captain had disappeared above-deck, then turned and backhanded Margot hard across the face, sending her reeling, seeing stars. Then they were gone, like a hurricane that had passed.

Margot, nursing a stinging cheek, went and gently helped support Bun up off of the wooden crate and back to her place against the wall. She helped the girl back on with her disheveled clothing then sat and cradled her, stroking her hair, as she cried herself to an uneasy sleep.

 

[Loinclothslave]

Sounds like an interesting cruise. Margot is going to blow her cover! She should have let them whip her so she could match Bun

 

[mark sessnatz]

Sounds like an interesting cruise. Margot is going to blow her cover! She should have let them whip her so she could match Bun

Sadly, business overrules pleasure in this instance.

 

[Loinclothslave]

Sadly, business overrules pleasure in this instance.

Oh, I meant to thank you for changing the font, much appreciated indeed!

 

[Fossy]

she had very little fictional backstory to go on

Oh dear ... basic error ...

Several nights later, the men came

A line that always promises so much ...

In seconds, Margot was behind the man. She threw her wrist chain over his head and dragged him, choking, by his neck, out of Bun

Careful Margot or you'll give the game away

Another excellent chapter. 'Bun' sounds like she could become a very needy character, so be careful whom you befriend Margot ...

 

[mark sessnatz]

CHAPTER III​

The ship was docked, the hatch was opened, and the blazing white Vaatari sun streamed inside, nearly blinding Margot, who had not seen sunlight in what felt like a lifetime. She and the rest of the slaves were herded unceremoniously to their feet and led, moving stiffly on their cramped and aching limbs, down the gangplank. After three weeks confined between bulkheads, the noise and color of the Port of Khajhann was overwhelming.

The docks were a carnival of people from all over the continents thronging to the capital for ceremony, pleasure, or commerce, both legal and otherwise. From the shore, a vast canal cut through the center of town, packed with boats and barges of every size. Vendors lined the sides, hawking food, cloth, tools, pottery, children's toys, livestock and anything else anyone could want from their brightly festooned stalls. Margot could smell roasting meats and frying breads, fruits, spices, perfumes, and a thousand other aromas. Further on, dwellings and shops painted white, red and yellow, with awnings and banners in every color of the rainbow, were piled high along narrow streets that wound up over the rocky hills.The port was huge and chaotic and gloriously alive. Margot wished she were in a position to enjoy it.

At the canal, the traders handed the captives over to the crew of a long barge flying the royal crest of Queen Savra. They were packed onto the deck, sitting in two rows, while a tall, beak-nosed man in ornately embroidered robes–evidently some sort of palace official–performed a head count of them from the bow. Satisfied, he scribbled some notes into a ledger book and signed some parchment for the sailors. He then cleared his throat performatively.

"Rejoice, unfortunate wretches!" the man proclaimed in a squeakier voice than Margot expected. "For you now begin a new life in the service of the most venerated Queen Savra I of Vaatar! It is an honor afforded to few and even fewer of your pitiful status. Think of your good fortune and b-WAAH!"

The deckhands, having taken up long oars in the fore and aft, launched the barge forcefully up the canal, causing the official to stumble from the sudden motion, flailing comically. He stood back up and coughed sheepishly, his face turning red beneath his bushy black eyebrows. "...Be grateful!" he concluded, and sat.

As they rowed northward up the canal, the landscape opened up. The teeming hills of the city gave way to verdant farms and sunny orchards, like wide irrigated oases, while the merchant stalls disappeared in favor of tall palm trees that swayed in the hot wind. Twice in a few miles, they came to high, fortified walls across the canal, where the official had to show his credentials to gold-helmeted guards to allow them passage through the heavy iron barriers. Between the walls, the way was lined with watchtowers manned by archers. Margot counted eight. She and the Messengers had known of the palace's defenses, but seeing them in person was a different matter, and made her feel suddenly more apprehensive about her exit strategy.

When the palace finally rose up before them, Margot, who had traveled to a score of countries and been the guest of royal courts spanning the three continents, nevertheless found the sight of it breathtaking. It loomed huge on the horizon like a mountain or steppe, with sheer, sloping walls of gleaming white stone. The walls were stacked in three levels and on top of each, ant-sized soldiers patrolled the battlements. From each corner flew a massive banner bearing the royal crest, and the entire fortress straddled the canal like some ancient crouching beast, petrified as punishment by a vengeful goddess.

"It’s amazing, Petal," whispered Bun, gazing at the palace in awe. Margot found that she couldn't disagree.

Before long, the vastness of the palace swallowed them as the canal passed directly underneath. For at least a mile, they were enclosed by a wide stone tunnel illuminated by torches on the walls. Between the torches, narrow passageways led to the upper levels of the palace. Only servants and contract workers descended here, where repairs were done on the Queen’s fleet or clandestine transactions took place in the flickering shadows.

At last they emerged again into daylight as the canal reached its end at a wide, man-made harbor surrounded by the Queen’s private freight yard. All around them, gangs of bare-chested laborers, or slaves, sweated over their work loading and unloading barges identical to their own of their cargo: barrels of wine, sacks of grain, and anything else necessary for life in the palace, sent from all corners of the kingdom. Every entrance and exit (Margot counted six) was guarded by soldiers in gleaming bronze armor, carrying long, wickedly sharp spears. More soldiers patrolled the area, overseeing the work along with official supervisors. All the activity stirred up a permanent haze of dust which stung Margot’s eyes and coated her throat, choking her.

With the barge brought in, the slaves disembarked onto the hard-packed sand of the freight yard. As Margot readjusted to the feeling of solid ground beneath her feet, the official went down the line with a set of skeleton keys and released them all from their manacles. They would need to be useful soon, and now that they were within the confines of the palace and under perpetual armed guard (eight grim spear-men covered the group from every angle), the restraints were no longer necessary. Her chafed wrists hurt. Her head hurt. She wanted a drink of water so badly.

"This way for inspection, wretches!" called their leader in his shrill voice. Compelled from behind by the guards, the group followed the man through an archway and up a stone staircase into a large, walled-in courtyard closer to the palace, where they were made to stand side by side in a single row. It was just after midday and the oppressive sun beat straight down on them from overhead, baking them where they stood. Margot had begun to sweat straight through her sack dress.

"All of you, strip!" commanded the shrill man. The order hung heavy in the air as the captives hesitated.

"Strip!" The man repeated. "To the skin! So Her Majesty may examine her property!"

Slowly, nervously at first, they complied. Margot untied her rope belt and let it drop. She peeled the damp and dirty sack off over her head and tossed it onto the ground. She was sure she could feel the relentless sun burning her skin the second it was exposed.

On either side of her, the rest of the slaves similarly discarded whatever rags they had been captured or sold in. Bun threw away her blouse and dropped her skirts to her ankles before kicking it aside. She wrapped her skinny arms around herself, though she could not have been cold. The shrill official supervised it all, pacing up and down the row like a training officer in the royal forces. Two matronly middle-aged women in plain orange robes passed through with brooms, gathering all of their discarded clothing into a large pile and moving it out of the way.

"Everything. Off!" The official shrieked in Margot's face, flinging spittle.

Under the sack, she'd been wearing only a simple cotton breech-cloth for modesty. Staring deliberately into the middle distance rather than at the official, she untied the paltry rag with one hand and flung it onto the pile. The last things she had on were her sandals, which she untied reluctantly and tossed aside, wincing as she set her bare feet on the sun-baked paving stones of the courtyard. Now totally naked, Margot made no futile attempts to cover herself. Choosing to sacrifice any shred of modesty for a last scrap of dignity, she simply stood straight and still, facing forward, her arms at her sides.. She dug her fingernails into palms, focusing on the pain to distract from the degradation.

"Now you will kneel!" shrieked the official, clicking his fingers.

Margot knelt down gingerly onto the hot, hard paving stones, evading the guards who walked behind them, jabbing spear handles into the naked backs or knees of anyone not dropping fast enough.

A heavy door on the far side of the courtyard opened with an ominous thud. More guards exited and stationed themselves to each side.

"Your Mistress," announced the official, "Her Majesty, Queen Savra!"

Flanked by two silent pages, she emerged. Savra was a statuesque vision in flowing white silk, taller even than Margot. She had the sun-bronzed complexion of most of her people, dark almond eyes beneath full black brows, and a strong jawline that enhanced her regal bearing. She wore no crown, but her willowy arms and neck were ornamented with gold and ivory, and she carried herself with an unhurried grace that could leave nobody in any doubt of who was the ruler here. In another life, Margot thought, Savra could have been the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. She glided across the courtyard, surveying the naked and trembling captives as one would cuts of meat in a butcher's.

"Where are they from?" she asked the official over her shoulder.

"Mostly the northern coast, ma'am," he answered, "a few from the island colonies."

Starting at the end furthest from Margot, she moved along the line, stopping and examining each person thoroughly. Each one in turn stood up and she grabbed their faces in her long fingers, forcibly turning their heads to look at them from every angle. She pinched and prodded and ran her hands freely over their bodies, squeezing the women's breasts and the few men's buttocks. Some she made turn on the spot or bend down for her. All the while, she betrayed little of what she was thinking verbally.

Most of the slaves took the examination without reaction, either from shock, exhaustion, or resignation. A few let silent tears run down their faces, but made no sound or gesture of protest. When Savra reached one very young, blonde-haired woman with a round face, the girl, overwhelmed, simply collapsed at her feet, sobbing unintelligibly. The Queen recoiled slightly, as though repulsed. She watched the poor girl for a moment, then snapped her fingers to signal for her soldiers.

"The lime quarries for this one," the Queen ordered. "I will not nurse a wailing child."

Two of the guards scooped the girl off the ground and dragged her away between them, back toward the canal. The entire time she shrieked in terror and despair, pleading in a language Margot didn't know. Her heart went out to the girl, but she was powerless to help.

When the screams had faded into the distance, the Queen moved on to Bun. Savra’s eyes passed stonily over the bruises on the inside of Bun's thighs. She then made Bun turn around, and methodically examined her scars, running the tip of her finger down the middle of Bun's back.

"This one is damaged," said Savra, turning to the official. "Did I pay for damaged goods?"

"Sincerest apologies, Majesty," the man squeaked in reply. "I will see to collecting reimbursement from those scoundrel merchants!" He scribbled something furiously in his book.

The Queen nodded. She grabbed Bun's shoulder and turned her back around. Bun looked visibly frightened, no doubt thinking of the previous girl's fate.

"Can you sew, girl?"

Bun shook her head fearfully. Savra put her fingers under Bun's chin and lifted her face to look at her.

"What can you do?" she asked.

In a trembling voice, Bun responded."

"I...I'm fair in the kitchen, Miss...Ma'am," she stammered.

The Queen smirked. She seemed to very much enjoy that she had this effect on people.

"Very well," she said, apparently satisfied. "This one will work in the kitchens." Another guard marched from his post on the wall and led Bun away by the arm. As she padded across the paving stones, Bun cast a last long glance over her shoulder to Margot, who attempted an encouraging smile in return.

Then it was Margot’s turn. Before she touched her, Savra walked in a full circle around Margot, studying all her angles as one appreciates a sculpture in a museum. Margot's breathing quickened self-consciously.

She was drenched in sweat, coated with a layer of dust from the Vaatari desert and grime from the voyage. Her hair was tangled and matted, and although they stood in the windy open air, it still seemed to her that she reeked of the ship's stinking hold.

Despite all of that, however, she was still tall and exceptionally fair-skinned, her curves and proportions still sublime and her blue eyes as clear and captivating as ever. After her weeks of persistent aching thirst, the finely toned muscles of her arms, legs and abdomen stood out in sharp relief, highlighted by the sunlight that glinted off her perspiring skin. As the Queen completed her circuit, her eyes widened with perceptible intrigue.

"Do you have a name, girl?" Savra asked. Margot was taken aback. She hadn't asked any other slave for a name.

"My name's...Petal, Majesty," said Margot softly.

Savra placed her hand on Margot’s face. She was wearing a claw-tipped golden cuff over her middle finger, and the point of the talon dug into her cheek.

"Are you pleased to serve me, Petal?" said the Queen.

"It's...an honor, Majesty," said Margot.

Savra trailed her hand slowly down Margot’s face, then her neck, then her chest. She felt Margot’s soft breasts, her toned stomach, and further and further down–

"That's correct," Savra smiled.

Her fingers insinuated themselves between Margot's legs, cupping her sex firmly. She slid her hand inward and inserted her gold claw sharply into Margot’s slit, watching for her reaction. Margot closed her eyes and forced herself to show no feeling.

"Say it again, slave," hissed Savra. She dug the point of the claw in further. Margot's mouth twitched.

"It’s…an honor to…serve you, Majesty," she breathed.

Savra smiled maliciously, savored the tension for a heartbeat, then stepped away withdrawing her hand quickly and forcefully. Margot gasped, her knees buckled and her hand flew defensively to her pubis. She stood, shakier on her feet, sucking breath in through her teeth at the residual ache as the Queen continued on down the line.

When she had finished her inspections, Savra turned and regarded the whole remaining line once more. She then pointed out five of the slaves: a tall, dark woman with short-cropped hair, a thin blonde a little older than Margot, a flat-chested girl who appeared Vaatari, a curvy girl with startling green eyes, and lastly, Margot herself.

"These five will join my personal handmaidens," the Queen proclaimed. "The boys shall work in the stables. The rest can be divided between the baths and the vineyard. I'll let you see to assigning them their duties." The official bowed in acquiescence. Savra turned to the matrons.

"Have my new handmaidens washed and dressed, then bring them to me in the East Atrium," she ordered. She washed her hands in a bowl of rosewater held by one of the pages, then signaled her guards to her side and billowed away down the corridor.

Margot stared after her, swallowing the pain and humiliation, forcing them down and focusing on her first victory. She had thought she would have to fight and cheat her way into the Queen’s orbit, but instead she had just received a direct invitation. Margot resolved to play this cautiously and not squander her unexpected advantage. She just wondered how much of herself would be taken in exchange.

 

[Fossy]

CHAPTER III​

The ship was docked, the hatch was opened, and the blazing white Vaatari sun streamed inside, nearly blinding Margot, who had not seen sunlight in what felt like a lifetime. She and the rest of the slaves were herded unceremoniously to their feet and led, moving stiffly on their cramped and aching limbs, down the gangplank. After three weeks confined between bulkheads, the noise and color of the Port of Khajhann was overwhelming.

The docks were a carnival of people from all over the continents thronging to the capital for ceremony, pleasure, or commerce, both legal and otherwise. From the shore, a vast canal cut through the center of town, packed with boats and barges of every size. Vendors lined the sides, hawking food, cloth, tools, pottery, children's toys, livestock and anything else anyone could want from their brightly festooned stalls. Margot could smell roasting meats and frying breads, fruits, spices, perfumes, and a thousand other aromas. Further on, dwellings and shops painted white, red and yellow, with awnings and banners in every color of the rainbow, were piled high along narrow streets that wound up over the rocky hills.The port was huge and chaotic and gloriously alive. Margot wished she were in a position to enjoy it.

At the canal, the traders handed the captives over to the crew of a long barge flying the royal crest of Queen Savra. They were packed onto the deck, sitting in two rows, while a tall, beak-nosed man in ornately embroidered robes–evidently some sort of palace official–performed a head count of them from the bow. Satisfied, he scribbled some notes into a ledger book and signed some parchment for the sailors. He then cleared his throat performatively.

"Rejoice, unfortunate wretches!" the man proclaimed in a squeakier voice than Margot expected. "For you now begin a new life in the service of the most venerated Queen Savra I of Vaatar! It is an honor afforded to few and even fewer of your pitiful status. Think of your good fortune and b-WAAH!"

The deckhands, having taken up long oars in the fore and aft, launched the barge forcefully up the canal, causing the official to stumble from the sudden motion, flailing comically. He stood back up and coughed sheepishly, his face turning red beneath his bushy black eyebrows. "...Be grateful!" he concluded, and sat.

As they rowed northward up the canal, the landscape opened up. The teeming hills of the city gave way to verdant farms and sunny orchards, like wide irrigated oases, while the merchant stalls disappeared in favor of tall palm trees that swayed in the hot wind. Twice in a few miles, they came to high, fortified walls across the canal, where the official had to show his credentials to gold-helmeted guards to allow them passage through the heavy iron barriers. Between the walls, the way was lined with watchtowers manned by archers. Margot counted eight. She and the Messengers had known of the palace's defenses, but seeing them in person was a different matter, and made her feel suddenly more apprehensive about her exit strategy.

When the palace finally rose up before them, Margot, who had traveled to a score of countries and been the guest of royal courts spanning the three continents, nevertheless found the sight of it breathtaking. It loomed huge on the horizon like a mountain or steppe, with sheer, sloping walls of gleaming white stone. The walls were stacked in three levels and on top of each, ant-sized soldiers patrolled the battlements. From each corner flew a massive banner bearing the royal crest, and the entire fortress straddled the canal like some ancient crouching beast, petrified as punishment by a vengeful goddess.

"It’s amazing, Petal," whispered Bun, gazing at the palace in awe. Margot found that she couldn't disagree.

Before long, the vastness of the palace swallowed them as the canal passed directly underneath. For at least a mile, they were enclosed by a wide stone tunnel illuminated by torches on the walls. Between the torches, narrow passageways led to the upper levels of the palace. Only servants and contract workers descended here, where repairs were done on the Queen’s fleet or clandestine transactions took place in the flickering shadows.

At last they emerged again into daylight as the canal reached its end at a wide, man-made harbor surrounded by the Queen’s private freight yard. All around them, gangs of bare-chested laborers, or slaves, sweated over their work loading and unloading barges identical to their own of their cargo: barrels of wine, sacks of grain, and anything else necessary for life in the palace, sent from all corners of the kingdom. Every entrance and exit (Margot counted six) was guarded by soldiers in gleaming bronze armor, carrying long, wickedly sharp spears. More soldiers patrolled the area, overseeing the work along with official supervisors. All the activity stirred up a permanent haze of dust which stung Margot’s eyes and coated her throat, choking her.

With the barge brought in, the slaves disembarked onto the hard-packed sand of the freight yard. As Margot readjusted to the feeling of solid ground beneath her feet, the official went down the line with a set of skeleton keys and released them all from their manacles. They would need to be useful soon, and now that they were within the confines of the palace and under perpetual armed guard (eight grim spear-men covered the group from every angle), the restraints were no longer necessary. Her chafed wrists hurt. Her head hurt. She wanted a drink of water so badly.

"This way for inspection, wretches!" called their leader in his shrill voice. Compelled from behind by the guards, the group followed the man through an archway and up a stone staircase into a large, walled-in courtyard closer to the palace, where they were made to stand side by side in a single row. It was just after midday and the oppressive sun beat straight down on them from overhead, baking them where they stood. Margot had begun to sweat straight through her sack dress.

"All of you, strip!" commanded the shrill man. The order hung heavy in the air as the captives hesitated.

"Strip!" The man repeated. "To the skin! So Her Majesty may examine her property!"

Slowly, nervously at first, they complied. Margot untied her rope belt and let it drop. She peeled the damp and dirty sack off over her head and tossed it onto the ground. She was sure she could feel the relentless sun burning her skin the second it was exposed.

On either side of her, the rest of the slaves similarly discarded whatever rags they had been captured or sold in. Bun threw away her blouse and dropped her skirts to her ankles before kicking it aside. She wrapped her skinny arms around herself, though she could not have been cold. The shrill official supervised it all, pacing up and down the row like a training officer in the royal forces. Two matronly middle-aged women in plain orange robes passed through with brooms, gathering all of their discarded clothing into a large pile and moving it out of the way.

"Everything. Off!" The official shrieked in Margot's face, flinging spittle.

Under the sack, she'd been wearing only a simple cotton breech-cloth for modesty. Staring deliberately into the middle distance rather than at the official, she untied the paltry rag with one hand and flung it onto the pile. The last things she had on were her sandals, which she untied reluctantly and tossed aside, wincing as she set her bare feet on the sun-baked paving stones of the courtyard. Now totally naked, Margot made no futile attempts to cover herself. Choosing to sacrifice any shred of modesty for a last scrap of dignity, she simply stood straight and still, facing forward, her arms at her sides.. She dug her fingernails into palms, focusing on the pain to distract from the degradation.

"Now you will kneel!" shrieked the official, clicking his fingers.

Margot knelt down gingerly onto the hot, hard paving stones, evading the guards who walked behind them, jabbing spear handles into the naked backs or knees of anyone not dropping fast enough.

A heavy door on the far side of the courtyard opened with an ominous thud. More guards exited and stationed themselves to each side.

"Your Mistress," announced the official, "Her Majesty, Queen Savra!"

Flanked by two silent pages, she emerged. Savra was a statuesque vision in flowing white silk, taller even than Margot. She had the sun-bronzed complexion of most of her people, dark almond eyes beneath full black brows, and a strong jawline that enhanced her regal bearing. She wore no crown, but her willowy arms and neck were ornamented with gold and ivory, and she carried herself with an unhurried grace that could leave nobody in any doubt of who was the ruler here. In another life, Margot thought, Savra could have been the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. She glided across the courtyard, surveying the naked and trembling captives as one would cuts of meat in a butcher's.

"Where are they from?" she asked the official over her shoulder.

"Mostly the northern coast, ma'am," he answered, "a few from the island colonies."

Starting at the end furthest from Margot, she moved along the line, stopping and examining each person thoroughly. Each one in turn stood up and she grabbed their faces in her long fingers, forcibly turning their heads to look at them from every angle. She pinched and prodded and ran her hands freely over their bodies, squeezing the women's breasts and the few men's buttocks. Some she made turn on the spot or bend down for her. All the while, she betrayed little of what she was thinking verbally.

Most of the slaves took the examination without reaction, either from shock, exhaustion, or resignation. A few let silent tears run down their faces, but made no sound or gesture of protest. When Savra reached one very young, blonde-haired woman with a round face, the girl, overwhelmed, simply collapsed at her feet, sobbing unintelligibly. The Queen recoiled slightly, as though repulsed. She watched the poor girl for a moment, then snapped her fingers to signal for her soldiers.

"The lime quarries for this one," the Queen ordered. "I will not nurse a wailing child."

Two of the guards scooped the girl off the ground and dragged her away between them, back toward the canal. The entire time she shrieked in terror and despair, pleading in a language Margot didn't know. Her heart went out to the girl, but she was powerless to help.

When the screams had faded into the distance, the Queen moved on to Bun. Savra’s eyes passed stonily over the bruises on the inside of Bun's thighs. She then made Bun turn around, and methodically examined her scars, running the tip of her finger down the middle of Bun's back.

"This one is damaged," said Savra, turning to the official. "Did I pay for damaged goods?"

"Sincerest apologies, Majesty," the man squeaked in reply. "I will see to collecting reimbursement from those scoundrel merchants!" He scribbled something furiously in his book.

The Queen nodded. She grabbed Bun's shoulder and turned her back around. Bun looked visibly frightened, no doubt thinking of the previous girl's fate.

"Can you sew, girl?"

Bun shook her head fearfully. Savra put her fingers under Bun's chin and lifted her face to look at her.

"What can you do?" she asked.

In a trembling voice, Bun responded."

"I...I'm fair in the kitchen, Miss...Ma'am," she stammered.

The Queen smirked. She seemed to very much enjoy that she had this effect on people.

"Very well," she said, apparently satisfied. "This one will work in the kitchens." Another guard marched from his post on the wall and led Bun away by the arm. As she padded across the paving stones, Bun cast a last long glance over her shoulder to Margot, who attempted an encouraging smile in return.

Then it was Margot’s turn. Before she touched her, Savra walked in a full circle around Margot, studying all her angles as one appreciates a sculpture in a museum. Margot's breathing quickened self-consciously.

She was drenched in sweat, coated with a layer of dust from the Vaatari desert and grime from the voyage. Her hair was tangled and matted, and although they stood in the windy open air, it still seemed to her that she reeked of the ship's stinking hold.

Despite all of that, however, she was still tall and exceptionally fair-skinned, her curves and proportions still sublime and her blue eyes as clear and captivating as ever. After her weeks of persistent aching thirst, the finely toned muscles of her arms, legs and abdomen stood out in sharp relief, highlighted by the sunlight that glinted off her perspiring skin. As the Queen completed her circuit, her eyes widened with perceptible intrigue.

"Do you have a name, girl?" Savra asked. Margot was taken aback. She hadn't asked any other slave for a name.

"My name's...Petal, Majesty," said Margot softly.

Savra placed her hand on Margot’s face. She was wearing a claw-tipped golden cuff over her middle finger, and the point of the talon dug into her cheek.

"Are you pleased to serve me, Petal?" said the Queen.

"It's...an honor, Majesty," said Margot.

Savra trailed her hand slowly down Margot’s face, then her neck, then her chest. She felt Margot’s soft breasts, her toned stomach, and further and further down–

"That's correct," Savra smiled.

Her fingers insinuated themselves between Margot's legs, cupping her sex firmly. She slid her hand inward and inserted her gold claw sharply into Margot’s slit, watching for her reaction. Margot closed her eyes and forced herself to show no feeling.

"Say it again, slave," hissed Savra. She dug the point of the claw in further. Margot's mouth twitched.

"It’s…an honor to…serve you, Majesty," she breathed.

Savra smiled maliciously, savored the tension for a heartbeat, then stepped away withdrawing her hand quickly and forcefully. Margot gasped, her knees buckled and her hand flew defensively to her pubis. She stood, shakier on her feet, sucking breath in through her teeth at the residual ache as the Queen continued on down the line.

When she had finished her inspections, Savra turned and regarded the whole remaining line once more. She then pointed out five of the slaves: a tall, dark woman with short-cropped hair, a thin blonde a little older than Margot, a flat-chested girl who appeared Vaatari, a curvy girl with startling green eyes, and lastly, Margot herself.

"These five will join my personal handmaidens," the Queen proclaimed. "The boys shall work in the stables. The rest can be divided between the baths and the vineyard. I'll let you see to assigning them their duties." The official bowed in acquiescence. Savra turned to the matrons.

"Have my new handmaidens washed and dressed, then bring them to me in the East Atrium," she ordered. She washed her hands in a bowl of rosewater held by one of the pages, then signaled her guards to her side and billowed away down the corridor.

Margot stared after her, swallowing the pain and humiliation, forcing them down and focusing on her first victory. She had thought she would have to fight and cheat her way into the Queen’s orbit, but instead she had just received a direct invitation. Margot resolved to play this cautiously and not squander her unexpected advantage. She just wondered how much of herself would be taken in exchange.

So an unexpected boost for Margot's mission - will she be able to take advantage of the opportunity. And have we seen the last of Bun? Something tells me not. A well written tale Mark ...

 

[mark sessnatz]

CHAPTER IV​

The water was cold, there was no soap, and the whole affair took place in the open air with only a linen awning for shade, but it still seemed to Margot the most satisfying bath she'd ever had.

She stood in a shallow wooden tub, filled to her shins while an attendant repeatedly filled up a bucket and poured it over Margot’s head from above. A second attendant used a small wooden paddle to scrape the layers of dirt from her wet skin. Margot for her part, helped by wringing out her sodden hair and splashing water over her face and shoulders, scrubbing furiously with her palms. The robed matrons stood watching the whole affair impatiently. When at last the water in the tub was nearly black and she stepped dripping onto the stones, she felt somewhat like herself again.

Around her, the four other selected handmaidens were getting the same treatment. They were in a half-shaded patio, smaller than the inspection courtyard, adjacent to an austere lower-level wing of the palace that they were told was the main slaves’ quarters. The rustic stone wall and the layer of straw spread across the ground to absorb the bathwater, did create the effect of a stable or barn. If they were livestock, however, then Margot and the others were the Queen’s prized show-horses. When the bathing was done, the attendants combed the women's hair and anointed them with a flowery-smelling perfume. Then, at last, they were given clothes.

The clothes, worn by all of the Queen’s personal slaves, were a pair of loose-fitting black trousers, cropped a little below the knee, made from soft, breezy silk, as well as a matching sleeveless half-top. There were no undergarments provided, and no shoes; palace slaves all went barefoot. Margot tied the trousers at her waist and slipped on the shirt. They fit like comfortable pajamas, though more revealing than she preferred. The trouser legs were cropped at mid-calf and the top left her midriff bare. Still, they were a huge improvement on nothing, and appropriate for the summer heat in Vaatar.

While the matrons led the women through the cavernous halls of the palace on their way to rejoin the queen, they briefed them on the rituals and procedures they would have to follow rigidly to properly serve: all of the manners, gestures and honorifics they needed to use, the times the Queen took her meals, baths, and when she went to bed, as well as her various likes and dislikes. It was an intimidating amount to take in but Margot listened intently. For her, it was invaluable knowledge. As they approached, however, Margot became distracted by another sound, worryingly like distant screaming.

The East Atrium was a grand, circular hall, with three stories of elegantly carved balconies encircling an opulent central staircase. The walls and floor were inlaid with extravagant abstract mosaics, and the rest was composed of the same white stone as the rest of the palace. It was at the top of the staircase that they met Queen Savra, accompanied by her ever-present guard. There was also another man, shorter than Savra and bald, but with dark eyes and a sharp jaw similar to her own. He was dressed in elegant blue satin.

Margot and the rest performed the ritual greeting they had been taught for royals and palace officials: they knelt fully down, on both knees, and bowed low, touching forehead to ground.

“My new slaves,” the Queen explained to the bald man. She then spoke to them directly. “You will obey the orders of my brother, Prince Haftan, as you would my own!” Haftan sneered at them haughtily.

“They’re not as pretty as your old ones, are they, sister?” he chuckled, goading her.

“You have no taste, Haftan,” Savra replied. “Besides, what matters is their loyalty.” Her eyes flickered across the group threateningly.

The handmaidens took up what were to be their regular positions at the Queen’s side. Margot was given a water pitcher to hold, another girl held a stack of soft linen towels, another carried the Queen’s combs. They were to stay at her side, stay silent, and attend to her needs as required.

“Talking of loyalty…” Savra addressed the group. “I have brought you all here to show you something.” Still, Margot heard that screaming.

She turned and stepped a large set of doors at the top of the stair landing. Haftan and the handmaidens followed her out onto a long, outdoor balcony. As they approached the railing, she gestured downward, toward the lawn beneath them. Margot peered down, and her stomach lurched as the source of the screaming became clear.

A slave boy, no older than twenty and completely naked, dangled from shackled wrists against a tall stone pillar. He writhed and bucked against the post, screaming himself hoarse in unenviable agony as a muscular guard wielding a heavy, knotted black whip flogged him pitilessly and relentlessly. The whole of his back was swollen, raw and bloodied from the thrashing and additional searing red weals striped the boy’s lean body from shoulders to knees. Sweat poured off him in waves, matting his long hair to his face and mingling with blood as it speckled the dirt at his feet.

To one side, more screams came from a slave girl, thrashing violently against the vicelike grip of another soldier as she was forced to watch the young man’s punishment. She sobbed desperately, pleading for them to cease the torture, to beat her instead. Apart from the act of holding her in place, nobody seemed to even acknowledge that she was there.

Margot felt nauseous, her stomach lurching at each percussive 'thwack' of the whip, yet found herself unable to turn away, her eyes transfixed by the gruesome horror of the scene. She thought back to Lusianna’s words, The Court of Vaatar is a vicious, brutal place. Was there nothing here as gentle as Lusianna’s touch, as kind as her smile? Was everything here so harsh and cruel?

“He is being punished for a dereliction of loyalty,” said the Queen coldly. “His body is the sworn property of his Queen, yet he was found with a common slave slut.” She paused to hear the whip come down again. The boy’s voice cracked as he howled in pain. “He will not betray me again.”

Margot felt a squeeze on her silk-clad thigh. She looked down to see a man’s hand, and an arm clad in blue satin. Haftan had appeared behind her, and when she met his gaze, he leered unsettlingly. She didn’t dare move away.

The Queen turned away from the balcony and stared down each of her slaves in turn. “Your bodies and your souls are my property and mine alone. If you obey, and you please your Queen,” she looked at Margot. “You will find yourself rewarded. If you betray me or forget your position,” she turned back toward the punishment. “I can and will break you.” There was a strange look in her eye as she watched the torture. Something almost like lust.

“How many is that, Captain?” Savra called down. The man wielding the whip looked up at her, scratching his head.

“One hundred-and-thirty…or so, Majesty,” he replied.

“You may leave it there,” Savra said. “And take the evening off.”

“Many thanks, Your Majesty!” called the Captain, still panting from the exertion. He saluted her.

The boy hung limp against the post, whimpering pitifully, his whole body trembling from the shock of the beating. The Captain unlocked the manacles and the boy fell to the ground. The other soldier dragged the girl away. She was still wailing.

* * *

They stood behind the Queen all through her dinner banquet. Only her brother the Prince joined Savra for her meal that night. She was served a sumptuous feast, which Margot ordinarily would have envied, but the sound of the whip was still ringing in her ears and she had no appetite. She focused instead on periodically refilling their water goblets and on their conversation, which mostly drifted between family squabbles and the petty day-to-day minutiae of palace politics, listening intently and absorbing every detail that she could. When she already knew so little, nothing was irrelevant.

Eventually, talk turned to the war with Merdaine, and the ongoing stalemate in the midst of the sea.

"The finer points of naval strategy don't seem to be getting us very far," Haftan remarked.

"You are right," Savra agreed. "Blockades, broadsides...these things are a game, and we are evenly matched. What we need is to strike a blow at their nation's soul."

"Lofty words, sister," Haftan said drolly, chewing on a date. "What did you have in mind?"

Savra took a long, slow sip of wine, then she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

"Not at supper," she said. "At the next War Council."

Haftan slapped the tabletop and slouched in his chair in a childish performance of frustration.

"You bore me, sister!" His eyes wandered to Margot against the wall.

"You there," he said, beckoning to her. "Some water! This wine is making me drowsy." Savra rolled her eyes at this.

Margot obeyed, crossing the dining room and filling the prince's goblet. As she withdrew the pitcher, he grabbed hold of her wrist and held her in place.

"There are few as fair as you in this country," he said admiringly. "Where do you come from, girl?"

"From Codura, your Highness," she said, referring to an impoverished country in the north which supplied much of the slave trade. She did not attempt to free her wrist. Haftan chuckled.

"You have soft skin to come from such a hard place as that," he slurred. "Is it all so soft as your wrist?" He looked her up and down and licked his lips.

"I made sure of it," Savra interrupted. "Enough now, brother. You're making a fool of yourself at my table. Not for the first time, of course."

The Prince slackened his grip and Margot stepped back, keeping her eyes on him. He looked hurt by his sister's words.

"You're the one that said--" he began defensively. Savra cut him off.

"I said they should heed you, not that they belong to you," she scolded. Gathering her gown she stood up."I would like Petal to prepare my bath now."

"Well, what the Queen wants…" sighed Haftan, folding his arms.

"Have one of the other girls," said Savra, "if it will get you to stop pouting!" She beckoned to Margot to follow her, then headed for the door.

* * *

Queen Savra's quarters were on the third level of the Palace; a series of airy, lavishly furnished rooms that opened onto ornate balconies. A private corridor led from the bedchamber and its anteroom to the baths. The only windows in the bath chamber were small slits set high up near the mosaic ceiling. Dozens of candles provided illumination. A huge stone pool, large enough for two or three grown people, occupied the middle of the room. Margot, perspiring from the steam, carried water from a simmering cauldron in the corner, adding it to the pool until it was satisfyingly hot, and laid out the Queen’s soaps, perfumes, and towels.

Savra entered, clad only in a gossamer white robe, which she allowed Margot to hold as she slipped gracefully out of it. Even naked, Savra was an intimidating figure. Her body was slim, athletic and powerful. Her brown skin shone like the polished bronze of her warriors' armor in the flickering light. She slipped into the pool as though it were her own throne. Closing her eyes as she relaxed into the warm bath was her only concession to vulnerability.

She had Margot sit on the side of the bath and brush out her long wet hair while she soaked, idly twirling her fingers in the water. Margot ran the comb through the shiny black strands meticulously, feeling pangs of homesickness. She used to do this for Lusianna.

"My brother is crass," Savra spoke abruptly, "but he observes rightly. Your touch and manner is unusually delicate for a Coduran serf." She turned her head to study Margot. "What did you do before?"

"I worked in the garden for my old Mistress," said Margot quietly.

"Of course," Savra chuckled. "The name. Do you miss your blossoms and shrubs, Petal?"

"I am happy to be here serving you, Mistress," said Margot, deciding flattery was her safest option. The Queen smiled.

"Good girl," she said. "Did your Mistress ask you to perform any…other duties?"

Margot tensed. "Nothing important," she said evasively. "Chores and things."

"I see," said Savra. "Never mind. I can see that you are a quick learner."

She rose languidly to stand waist-deep in the pool. The water slid off her, and she resembled some kind of river goddess out of a folktale.

"Get into the water," she ordered. "You can wash where I can’t reach."

Margot’s heart was pounding. Not wanting to soak her only clothes, she slipped off her trousers and top and set them neatly folded at the base of the pool. Cautiously, she slid her bare legs into the warm water until she too stood waist-deep in the bath with her country's greatest enemy.

Taking the bath sponge in hand, she squeezed out the excess water, watching it cascade over Savra’s neck and shoulders. Savra held her arms out as Margot dabbed the sponge gently down her perfectly toned back and around her sides. She closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders, relaxing at Margot’s touch.

“Are you afraid of me, Petal?”

Margot hesitated.

“I…care only to please you, Ma’am.” She immediately feared it was the wrong answer. Savra turned to face Margot in the bath. She stepped close and placed her warm hand on Margot’s bare shoulder.

“I am glad to hear that,” said Savra. “However–” She trailed her hand down over Margot’s shoulder, chest and arm. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. Her touch, though gentle, was loveless. There was power in it, but no warmth. Margot tried to remember her princess’s touch on her body. Her breathing quickened.

“In my position,” the Queen continued. “I cannot be truly loved. Only envied. Even my own family I cannot trust.” She rested her hands on Margot’s shoulders, fingers playing around her neck, toying with the ends of her hair. “The only thing that guarantees loyalty is fear.”

Her hand snapped shut around a fistful of Margot’s hair. Margot had no chance to react. With frightening strength, Savra forced her head down, plunging it under the surface of the bath and holding her. Murky, tepid water blinded her and filled her nose and mouth. Margot slipped and fell to her knees struggling violently. Panic overtook her, blotting out thought. Her hands flailed but found nothing to grasp. She choked out a stream of bubbles, her lungs burning for air.

Still Savra held her down.

Blackness crept into her sight. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t fight any longer.

Savra wrenched her painfully by her hair up out of the water and threw her against the side of the pool, where she gasped greedily for oxygen. Her chest throbbed as she heaved ragged breaths. Savra laughed at her.

"Are you afraid of me?" Savra asked again.

Margot summoned the strength to nod weakly. Her blue eyes spit venom.

Savra smiled smugly.

"Good girl," she said. "Catch your breath, my pretty little Petal, then come towel me off."

* * *

When the Queen had retired for the night, Margot returned wearily to the slaves’ quarters and sank to the floor in the corridor outside.

“…My pretty little petal…”

She hugged her knees to her chest, thinking again of the palace gardens in Merdaine, and finally she wept.

 

[Fossy]

CHAPTER IV​

The water was cold, there was no soap, and the whole affair took place in the open air with only a linen awning for shade, but it still seemed to Margot the most satisfying bath she'd ever had.

She stood in a shallow wooden tub, filled to her shins while an attendant repeatedly filled up a bucket and poured it over Margot’s head from above. A second attendant used a small wooden paddle to scrape the layers of dirt from her wet skin. Margot for her part, helped by wringing out her sodden hair and splashing water over her face and shoulders, scrubbing furiously with her palms. The robed matrons stood watching the whole affair impatiently. When at last the water in the tub was nearly black and she stepped dripping onto the stones, she felt somewhat like herself again.

Around her, the four other selected handmaidens were getting the same treatment. They were in a half-shaded patio, smaller than the inspection courtyard, adjacent to an austere lower-level wing of the palace that they were told was the main slaves’ quarters. The rustic stone wall and the layer of straw spread across the ground to absorb the bathwater, did create the effect of a stable or barn. If they were livestock, however, then Margot and the others were the Queen’s prized show-horses. When the bathing was done, the attendants combed the women's hair and anointed them with a flowery-smelling perfume. Then, at last, they were given clothes.

The clothes, worn by all of the Queen’s personal slaves, were a pair of loose-fitting black trousers, cropped a little below the knee, made from soft, breezy silk, as well as a matching sleeveless half-top. There were no undergarments provided, and no shoes; palace slaves all went barefoot. Margot tied the trousers at her waist and slipped on the shirt. They fit like comfortable pajamas, though more revealing than she preferred. The trouser legs were cropped at mid-calf and the top left her midriff bare. Still, they were a huge improvement on nothing, and appropriate for the summer heat in Vaatar.

While the matrons led the women through the cavernous halls of the palace on their way to rejoin the queen, they briefed them on the rituals and procedures they would have to follow rigidly to properly serve: all of the manners, gestures and honorifics they needed to use, the times the Queen took her meals, baths, and when she went to bed, as well as her various likes and dislikes. It was an intimidating amount to take in but Margot listened intently. For her, it was invaluable knowledge. As they approached, however, Margot became distracted by another sound, worryingly like distant screaming.

The East Atrium was a grand, circular hall, with three stories of elegantly carved balconies encircling an opulent central staircase. The walls and floor were inlaid with extravagant abstract mosaics, and the rest was composed of the same white stone as the rest of the palace. It was at the top of the staircase that they met Queen Savra, accompanied by her ever-present guard. There was also another man, shorter than Savra and bald, but with dark eyes and a sharp jaw similar to her own. He was dressed in elegant blue satin.

Margot and the rest performed the ritual greeting they had been taught for royals and palace officials: they knelt fully down, on both knees, and bowed low, touching forehead to ground.

“My new slaves,” the Queen explained to the bald man. She then spoke to them directly. “You will obey the orders of my brother, Prince Haftan, as you would my own!” Haftan sneered at them haughtily.

“They’re not as pretty as your old ones, are they, sister?” he chuckled, goading her.

“You have no taste, Haftan,” Savra replied. “Besides, what matters is their loyalty.” Her eyes flickered across the group threateningly.

The handmaidens took up what were to be their regular positions at the Queen’s side. Margot was given a water pitcher to hold, another girl held a stack of soft linen towels, another carried the Queen’s combs. They were to stay at her side, stay silent, and attend to her needs as required.

“Talking of loyalty…” Savra addressed the group. “I have brought you all here to show you something.” Still, Margot heard that screaming.

She turned and stepped a large set of doors at the top of the stair landing. Haftan and the handmaidens followed her out onto a long, outdoor balcony. As they approached the railing, she gestured downward, toward the lawn beneath them. Margot peered down, and her stomach lurched as the source of the screaming became clear.

A slave boy, no older than twenty and completely naked, dangled from shackled wrists against a tall stone pillar. He writhed and bucked against the post, screaming himself hoarse in unenviable agony as a muscular guard wielding a heavy, knotted black whip flogged him pitilessly and relentlessly. The whole of his back was swollen, raw and bloodied from the thrashing and additional searing red weals striped the boy’s lean body from shoulders to knees. Sweat poured off him in waves, matting his long hair to his face and mingling with blood as it speckled the dirt at his feet.

To one side, more screams came from a slave girl, thrashing violently against the vicelike grip of another soldier as she was forced to watch the young man’s punishment. She sobbed desperately, pleading for them to cease the torture, to beat her instead. Apart from the act of holding her in place, nobody seemed to even acknowledge that she was there.

Margot felt nauseous, her stomach lurching at each percussive 'thwack' of the whip, yet found herself unable to turn away, her eyes transfixed by the gruesome horror of the scene. She thought back to Lusianna’s words, The Court of Vaatar is a vicious, brutal place. Was there nothing here as gentle as Lusianna’s touch, as kind as her smile? Was everything here so harsh and cruel?

“He is being punished for a dereliction of loyalty,” said the Queen coldly. “His body is the sworn property of his Queen, yet he was found with a common slave slut.” She paused to hear the whip come down again. The boy’s voice cracked as he howled in pain. “He will not betray me again.”

Margot felt a squeeze on her silk-clad thigh. She looked down to see a man’s hand, and an arm clad in blue satin. Haftan had appeared behind her, and when she met his gaze, he leered unsettlingly. She didn’t dare move away.

The Queen turned away from the balcony and stared down each of her slaves in turn. “Your bodies and your souls are my property and mine alone. If you obey, and you please your Queen,” she looked at Margot. “You will find yourself rewarded. If you betray me or forget your position,” she turned back toward the punishment. “I can and will break you.” There was a strange look in her eye as she watched the torture. Something almost like lust.

“How many is that, Captain?” Savra called down. The man wielding the whip looked up at her, scratching his head.

“One hundred-and-thirty…or so, Majesty,” he replied.

“You may leave it there,” Savra said. “And take the evening off.”

“Many thanks, Your Majesty!” called the Captain, still panting from the exertion. He saluted her.

The boy hung limp against the post, whimpering pitifully, his whole body trembling from the shock of the beating. The Captain unlocked the manacles and the boy fell to the ground. The other soldier dragged the girl away. She was still wailing.

* * *

They stood behind the Queen all through her dinner banquet. Only her brother the Prince joined Savra for her meal that night. She was served a sumptuous feast, which Margot ordinarily would have envied, but the sound of the whip was still ringing in her ears and she had no appetite. She focused instead on periodically refilling their water goblets and on their conversation, which mostly drifted between family squabbles and the petty day-to-day minutiae of palace politics, listening intently and absorbing every detail that she could. When she already knew so little, nothing was irrelevant.

Eventually, talk turned to the war with Merdaine, and the ongoing stalemate in the midst of the sea.

"The finer points of naval strategy don't seem to be getting us very far," Haftan remarked.

"You are right," Savra agreed. "Blockades, broadsides...these things are a game, and we are evenly matched. What we need is to strike a blow at their nation's soul."

"Lofty words, sister," Haftan said drolly, chewing on a date. "What did you have in mind?"

Savra took a long, slow sip of wine, then she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

"Not at supper," she said. "At the next War Council."

Haftan slapped the tabletop and slouched in his chair in a childish performance of frustration.

"You bore me, sister!" His eyes wandered to Margot against the wall.

"You there," he said, beckoning to her. "Some water! This wine is making me drowsy." Savra rolled her eyes at this.

Margot obeyed, crossing the dining room and filling the prince's goblet. As she withdrew the pitcher, he grabbed hold of her wrist and held her in place.

"There are few as fair as you in this country," he said admiringly. "Where do you come from, girl?"

"From Codura, your Highness," she said, referring to an impoverished country in the north which supplied much of the slave trade. She did not attempt to free her wrist. Haftan chuckled.

"You have soft skin to come from such a hard place as that," he slurred. "Is it all so soft as your wrist?" He looked her up and down and licked his lips.

"I made sure of it," Savra interrupted. "Enough now, brother. You're making a fool of yourself at my table. Not for the first time, of course."

The Prince slackened his grip and Margot stepped back, keeping her eyes on him. He looked hurt by his sister's words.

"You're the one that said--" he began defensively. Savra cut him off.

"I said they should heed you, not that they belong to you," she scolded. Gathering her gown she stood up."I would like Petal to prepare my bath now."

"Well, what the Queen wants…" sighed Haftan, folding his arms.

"Have one of the other girls," said Savra, "if it will get you to stop pouting!" She beckoned to Margot to follow her, then headed for the door.

* * *

Queen Savra's quarters were on the third level of the Palace; a series of airy, lavishly furnished rooms that opened onto ornate balconies. A private corridor led from the bedchamber and its anteroom to the baths. The only windows in the bath chamber were small slits set high up near the mosaic ceiling. Dozens of candles provided illumination. A huge stone pool, large enough for two or three grown people, occupied the middle of the room. Margot, perspiring from the steam, carried water from a simmering cauldron in the corner, adding it to the pool until it was satisfyingly hot, and laid out the Queen’s soaps, perfumes, and towels.

Savra entered, clad only in a gossamer white robe, which she allowed Margot to hold as she slipped gracefully out of it. Even naked, Savra was an intimidating figure. Her body was slim, athletic and powerful. Her brown skin shone like the polished bronze of her warriors' armor in the flickering light. She slipped into the pool as though it were her own throne. Closing her eyes as she relaxed into the warm bath was her only concession to vulnerability.

She had Margot sit on the side of the bath and brush out her long wet hair while she soaked, idly twirling her fingers in the water. Margot ran the comb through the shiny black strands meticulously, feeling pangs of homesickness. She used to do this for Lusianna.

"My brother is crass," Savra spoke abruptly, "but he observes rightly. Your touch and manner is unusually delicate for a Coduran serf." She turned her head to study Margot. "What did you do before?"

"I worked in the garden for my old Mistress," said Margot quietly.

"Of course," Savra chuckled. "The name. Do you miss your blossoms and shrubs, Petal?"

"I am happy to be here serving you, Mistress," said Margot, deciding flattery was her safest option. The Queen smiled.

"Good girl," she said. "Did your Mistress ask you to perform any…other duties?"

Margot tensed. "Nothing important," she said evasively. "Chores and things."

"I see," said Savra. "Never mind. I can see that you are a quick learner."

She rose languidly to stand waist-deep in the pool. The water slid off her, and she resembled some kind of river goddess out of a folktale.

"Get into the water," she ordered. "You can wash where I can’t reach."

Margot’s heart was pounding. Not wanting to soak her only clothes, she slipped off her trousers and top and set them neatly folded at the base of the pool. Cautiously, she slid her bare legs into the warm water until she too stood waist-deep in the bath with her country's greatest enemy.

Taking the bath sponge in hand, she squeezed out the excess water, watching it cascade over Savra’s neck and shoulders. Savra held her arms out as Margot dabbed the sponge gently down her perfectly toned back and around her sides. She closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders, relaxing at Margot’s touch.

“Are you afraid of me, Petal?”

Margot hesitated.

“I…care only to please you, Ma’am.” She immediately feared it was the wrong answer. Savra turned to face Margot in the bath. She stepped close and placed her warm hand on Margot’s bare shoulder.

“I am glad to hear that,” said Savra. “However–” She trailed her hand down over Margot’s shoulder, chest and arm. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. Her touch, though gentle, was loveless. There was power in it, but no warmth. Margot tried to remember her princess’s touch on her body. Her breathing quickened.

“In my position,” the Queen continued. “I cannot be truly loved. Only envied. Even my own family I cannot trust.” She rested her hands on Margot’s shoulders, fingers playing around her neck, toying with the ends of her hair. “The only thing that guarantees loyalty is fear.”

Her hand snapped shut around a fistful of Margot’s hair. Margot had no chance to react. With frightening strength, Savra forced her head down, plunging it under the surface of the bath and holding her. Murky, tepid water blinded her and filled her nose and mouth. Margot slipped and fell to her knees struggling violently. Panic overtook her, blotting out thought. Her hands flailed but found nothing to grasp. She choked out a stream of bubbles, her lungs burning for air.

Still Savra held her down.

Blackness crept into her sight. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t fight any longer.

Savra wrenched her painfully by her hair up out of the water and threw her against the side of the pool, where she gasped greedily for oxygen. Her chest throbbed as she heaved ragged breaths. Savra laughed at her.

"Are you afraid of me?" Savra asked again.

Margot summoned the strength to nod weakly. Her blue eyes spit venom.

Savra smiled smugly.

"Good girl," she said. "Catch your breath, my pretty little Petal, then come towel me off."

* * *

When the Queen had retired for the night, Margot returned wearily to the slaves’ quarters and sank to the floor in the corridor outside.

“…My pretty little petal…”

She hugged her knees to her chest, thinking again of the palace gardens in Merdaine, and finally she wept.

Very well written. The impact of the appalling whipping being described as 'an aside' was excellent. Good work Mark

 

[mark sessnatz]

Very well written. The impact of the appalling whipping being described as 'an aside' was excellent. Good work Mark

Thanks @Fossy !
This was a difficult chapter so the positive feedback is a relief!

 

[jalwip12]

Excellent job on this so far. Look forward to reading as the story continues.

 

[mark sessnatz]

CHAPTER V​

The slaves' quarters were, as Margot had first thought, very much like a stable; a large, dim, drafty structure lined with rows of small wooden stalls. The stalls had no doors, and each contained only a thin sleeping pallet, stuffed with straw, one bowl and one spoon.

Each day, Margot was obliged to wake before dawn, quickly scarf a functional but disheartening breakfast of a thin rice porridge and dried fruit, then make her way with the others to the Queen’s chambers to be ready before she rose. The routine was stringent, but useful, as it gave Margot a structure around which to plan her next moves.

It was during these liminal early hours that she became more acquainted with the other enslaved handmaids. The tall, dark woman was called Dove, and had been a slave on the Vaatari island colonies. Dove was reserved and soft-spoken, which Margot had initially mistaken as aloofness, but soon found that her gentle manner put her at ease. The older blonde woman was known as Pinch, a name bestowed on her by the clientele in her former life at a northern brothel. Margot wondered if she was really as old as she looked or if she'd just lived through too much too soon.

The petite, green eyed girl had also, like Margot’s alias, worked in gardens, and was called Vine. She smiled more than almost anyone else there, but Margot could sense the deep sadness behind it. The thin Vaatari girl was the only one with an actual name, Tisa. Unlike the rest of them, she wasn't born a slave, but was a former street urchin, sentenced to slavery as a teenager as punishment for multiple petty crimes. Although there was some glimmer of a harder edge still in her, Tisa seemed at peace with her fate, or at least resigned to it. Too much of an edge in this place could get her whipped within an inch of her life, so she repressed it.

Margot was wary of getting too close or attached to these women, but she didn't wish to outright alienate them either. Though they could not be privy to her true intentions, they were the nearest thing to allies she had here, and most of the time, her only human company. She felt she owed them the rare courtesy of seeing them for the people they were, and not just as playthings. They weren’t less than her, just less fortunate. She would remember them when she left.

* * *

They walked with Queen Savra through the freight yard at the end of the canal, winding through the bustle of activity as she inspected the new supply shipments. She was meeting that day with her Junior Finance Minister, the tall, beak-nosed man who had received the slaves at the port and who Margot learned was named Moshti. They discussed the latest budgets for daily life in the palace, and, more to Margot’s interest, the war. Margot and Dove held parasols to shade the Queen and the Minister from the blistering sun. The hot, sharp gravel of the harbor yard hurt Margot’s feet, which had grown accustomed to the cool stone floors of the palace.

“And that,” squeaked Moshti, concluding his latest assessment, “is two hundred units from the western granaries at twelve silver pieces each.” He scribbled into his ever-present ledger book. “More than paid for by the new taxes, assuming those taxes are paid in full.”

Savra nodded.

“We will collect one way or another,” she said confidently. "We always do. Now, moving on to the question of munitions...?”

Moshti flipped some pages, studied the figures, and grimaced.

“Well, that, I’m afraid, is an area of some concern, Majesty,” he said carefully. “I have, believe me, triple-checked my records. At our current rate of requisition, supplies for the war fleet will outpace necessary revenues within six months.”

The Queen nodded again, seeming unconcerned.

“And what if we were to cease requisitions for a time. After the Cypress Moon, for instance?”

Margot listened intently. The Cypress Moon was a pivotal holiday on the Vaatari calendar, five weeks away. It was the day selected for her evacuation.

“Is there something you are anticipating, Majesty?” Moshti asked, scratching his head.

“Just humor me.”

Moshti scrawled some calculations, frowning pensively. That ledger book, Margot realized, could be an invaluable source of intel. It seemed that every single penny that passed in or out of Savra’s vaults was logged in Moshti’s records. If she could somehow get a closer look at his books, that meticulousness could be his downfall.

“Just something to consider, Minister,” said Savra. “Logistics are of course, your area of expertise and not mine.”

“Yes,” said Moshti, putting down his pencil. His eyes scanned the numbers once more. “I take your point, Majesty.” Whatever point he took, he wasn't saying.

“LOOK OUT!”

A shout from nearby cut off the discussion. Near where they stood, a gang of laborers had been tying down barrels on the end of a barge, when one worker, a slave woman with muscular arms and her hair tied up in a frayed scarf, lost control of the tether. The other workers dove to pick up the slack, but it was too late. The rope strained, then snapped, and the barrels tumbled off the end of the barge.

The Queen and her slaves leapt out of the way just in time, but Moshti wasn’t as nimble. The nearest barrel landed heavily in the mouth of the canal and splattered the shrieking Minister with a substantial payload of water and silt. He cringed at the mess on his fine robes. Savra, standing clean and dry a few meters away, repressed a laugh at her hapless underling.

“Minister Moshti,” she said jovially, “such a state you’re in! We must get you tidied up! Come, Petal!” She clapped her hands and Margot stepped forward. “Take Minister Moshti’s things straight to the laundry! Come back with a towel and a clean coat.” Moshti shrugged off his outermost robe and placed it, damp and dirty, into Margot’s waiting arms. Margot bowed and jogged away back into the palace.

Glad to be out of the sun, Margot hurried through the imposing corridors. She hadn’t fully mapped the palace out in her head yet, but she knew the laundry was on the ground level, past the kitchens. She passed by ornate pillars, flaming torches and imposing statues of former Vaatari monarchs, before a fast-moving glimmer of blue in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She stopped, backed up and turned to look down a small perpendicular passageway. The blue shape was Prince Haftan, moving swiftly away down the dark and narrow corridor. Margot watched him, looked at the bundle of damp and dirty cloth in her arms, then back to Haftan in time to see him disappear through a side door.

It would be a risk, she thought, getting sidetracked like this, but she was here for a reason. Her every instinct told her that she would find some answers at the end of that corridor. Still clutching Moshti’s dirty robe, she pressed herself against the wall and crept down the side passage. It wasn’t a secret passage, exactly, but it was clearly designed to be overlooked, nestled as it was between two massive statues. Margot would certainly have missed it if it hadn’t been for Haftan’s brightly colored robes.

As she reached the side door (really just a barely man-sized gap in the wall), she heard faint voices. She slipped through the gap and found herself at the top of a narrow flight of stone steps. The voices drifted in from somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. She still couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she could tell that one of the voices was Haftan’s.

Slowly, as if moving through water, Margot descended. For once, she was grateful to be barefoot, as it made her steps silent. She quieted her breathing and listened intently. When she reached the bottom landing, she stopped, not wanting to reveal herself around the corner, and she listened.

“Who else might know?” said a deep voice that Margot didn’t recognize.

“I don’t trust that man, Moshti,” That voice was Haftan. “She tells that glorified accountant more than she tells her own kin.”

“Of course,” said the deep voice. “If she hired an assassin, the pencil-pusher would know before anyone. Anyone else?”

“Well,” said Haftan, “My sister has a new favorite slave, a northern girl, very pretty,”

“Get to the point,”

“If Savra has a weakness,” continued Haftan, “It’s her playthings. Sometimes, when having too much fun, she lets things slip. If I can get a moment alone with the girl…”

“I see,” said the other man. “No need to tell me more. Do what you need to, but move quickly.”

“Keep tabs on the Minister,” said Haftan. “We’ll rendezvous again after the next War Council. She won’t take me into confidence, but at least she can't stop me from attending.”

Margot’s mind was reeling. The thought that the belligerent and lecherous Prince Haftan could be an ally to her mission...it seemed inconceivable.

The unknown man clicked his boot heels in a salute.

Her heart racing, Margot turned and ran as quickly and silently as she could, back up the stairs. She slipped back into the side hallway in time to hear Haftan’s shoes ascending the steps behind her. Moshti’s robes spilling out of her arms, she bounded for the daylight of the main corridor, rounding the corner between the statues just in time–

“Miss Petal!”

She skidded to a halt and barely avoided knocking over Bun, who had been sweeping the corridor and looked simultaneously confused and delighted to see her.

“Er--sorry to trouble you, if you're busy," said Bun, glancing at the soiled robes and Margot’s harried expression.

“It’s all right,” said Margot, glancing over her shoulder. “I was just–”

"It’s just, I thought after you went off with Her Majesty," Bun said sheepishly, "I wouldn't be seeing you again."

“It’s just–” Margot began.

"I hope you're well, miss!"

Margot tried to summon a kind word for the girl, but she was interrupted by a hand gripping her shoulder.

“What a delightful surprise!” said Haftan, behind her. “My sister has misplaced her favorite toy.”

Instinct taking hold, Margot turned around slowly, knelt and bowed to him. Bun bowed as well, before backing away with her broom.

“You look lost,” Haftan said matter-of-factly.

“I was on my way to the laundry," Margot replied, "Forgive me. I think I did lose my way.” Haftan reached under Margot’s chin with a finger and tilted her head up to face him.

“Forgive you?” he said. “Whatever for? It’s an unexpected pleasure to have you adorn my path.” He studied her for a reaction. “You’re going the wrong way, though. It's that way, past the kitchens."

Margot carefully considered her response. Haftan seemed to be working toward the same end as herself, but she didn't know his motives. She couldn't risk trusting him yet, but she needed to get close, to learn more. She decided the safest move was to play to his natural prejudices.

“Oh…yes, of course, My Lord. I’m just such a stupid slave girl.”

Haftan cracked a vain half-smile that looked unsettlingly like his sister’s.

“Yes,” he said. “Say that again, would you?”

Margot clenched her fists, avoiding eye contact.

“I’m a stupid slave girl, My Lord.”

“Hmmm, indeed. There must be something you’re good for, though.” Haftan lowered himself to one knee, keeping his hand on her face, “I should very much like to find out what.”

Margot finally looked him straight in the eyes, making her own as wide as she could.

“I hope you will have that chance, My Lord.”

The prince’s eyes flashed. “I begin to understand my sister's obsession,” he breathed.

“She is good to me, your Majesty,” said Margot, then, smiling coyly, she threw out her lure.“But does every girl, slave or free, not dream of a handsome prince?” Haftan closed his hand around the back of her neck. She was reminded of the danger he posed, but she wanted him to think he was in control.

“My rooms are at the top of the north wing,” Haftan said, practically tripping over his words, “if Savra ever lets you out of her sight.” Margot nodded, knowing he was hooked.

Haftan stood as if snapping from a trance and self-consciously straightened his robes.

“What are you gawking at, girl?” he barked at Bun, watching transfixed over Margot’s shoulder. Bun bowed hurriedly, glanced at Margot in amazement, and scurried away down the corridor. Haftan harrumphed to himself, then turned and briskly walked the other direction.

* * *

Margot returned breathlessly to the freight yard, her arms full of clean linens, and found Savra and Moshti more or less where she left them. She dropped to her knees in the dust and held the towels out to Moshti, who snatched them impatiently.

“Where on earth have you been, idiotic girl?” demanded Savra. “The Minister has nearly dried from the wind by now!”

“Apologies, my Queen, I’m so sorry,” Margot said. “I lost my way in the Palace.” She knew her excuse was weak, and hoped what she'd gained would be worth it.

"Hmmm" said Savra, frowning. “Perhaps you’re stupider than I led myself to believe.”

“That’s right, Ma’am," said Margot. She kept her head bowed.

"My own mistake,” Savra sighed. "You will remember the way next time, or you will suffer for it."

"Yes, Majesty," said Margot, relieved. Worth it, then.

While Moshti was absorbed in dabbing at a stain on his robe, the Queen and her escort departed. Margot glanced backward toward the laborers recovering the fallen barrels. The woman whose rope had broken was there, moving slowly and stiffly. Her shirt was torn open, and several fresh blood-red welts burned livid and raw across her back. Margot thought about all the risks she was taking, and wondered how many more chances she had before facing painful and humiliating retribution of her own.

 

[Fossy]

CHAPTER V​

The slaves' quarters were, as Margot had first thought, very much like a stable; a large, dim, drafty structure lined with rows of small wooden stalls. The stalls had no doors, and each contained only a thin sleeping pallet, stuffed with straw, one bowl and one spoon.

Each day, Margot was obliged to wake before dawn, quickly scarf a functional but disheartening breakfast of a thin rice porridge and dried fruit, then make her way with the others to the Queen’s chambers to be ready before she rose. The routine was stringent, but useful, as it gave Margot a structure around which to plan her next moves.

It was during these liminal early hours that she became more acquainted with the other enslaved handmaids. The tall, dark woman was called Dove, and had been a slave on the Vaatari island colonies. Dove was reserved and soft-spoken, which Margot had initially mistaken as aloofness, but soon found that her gentle manner put her at ease. The older blonde woman was known as Pinch, a name bestowed on her by the clientele in her former life at a northern brothel. Margot wondered if she was really as old as she looked or if she'd just lived through too much too soon.

The petite, green eyed girl had also, like Margot’s alias, worked in gardens, and was called Vine. She smiled more than almost anyone else there, but Margot could sense the deep sadness behind it. The thin Vaatari girl was the only one with an actual name, Tisa. Unlike the rest of them, she wasn't born a slave, but was a former street urchin, sentenced to slavery as a teenager as punishment for multiple petty crimes. Although there was some glimmer of a harder edge still in her, Tisa seemed at peace with her fate, or at least resigned to it. Too much of an edge in this place could get her whipped within an inch of her life, so she repressed it.

Margot was wary of getting too close or attached to these women, but she didn't wish to outright alienate them either. Though they could not be privy to her true intentions, they were the nearest thing to allies she had here, and most of the time, her only human company. She felt she owed them the rare courtesy of seeing them for the people they were, and not just as playthings. They weren’t less than her, just less fortunate. She would remember them when she left.

* * *

They walked with Queen Savra through the freight yard at the end of the canal, winding through the bustle of activity as she inspected the new supply shipments. She was meeting that day with her Junior Finance Minister, the tall, beak-nosed man who had received the slaves at the port and who Margot learned was named Moshti. They discussed the latest budgets for daily life in the palace, and, more to Margot’s interest, the war. Margot and Dove held parasols to shade the Queen and the Minister from the blistering sun. The hot, sharp gravel of the harbor yard hurt Margot’s feet, which had grown accustomed to the cool stone floors of the palace.

“And that,” squeaked Moshti, concluding his latest assessment, “is two hundred units from the western granaries at twelve silver pieces each.” He scribbled into his ever-present ledger book. “More than paid for by the new taxes, assuming those taxes are paid in full.”

Savra nodded.

“We will collect one way or another,” she said confidently. "We always do. Now, moving on to the question of munitions...?”

Moshti flipped some pages, studied the figures, and grimaced.

“Well, that, I’m afraid, is an area of some concern, Majesty,” he said carefully. “I have, believe me, triple-checked my records. At our current rate of requisition, supplies for the war fleet will outpace necessary revenues within six months.”

The Queen nodded again, seeming unconcerned.

“And what if we were to cease requisitions for a time. After the Cypress Moon, for instance?”

Margot listened intently. The Cypress Moon was a pivotal holiday on the Vaatari calendar, five weeks away. It was the day selected for her evacuation.

“Is there something you are anticipating, Majesty?” Moshti asked, scratching his head.

“Just humor me.”

Moshti scrawled some calculations, frowning pensively. That ledger book, Margot realized, could be an invaluable source of intel. It seemed that every single penny that passed in or out of Savra’s vaults was logged in Moshti’s records. If she could somehow get a closer look at his books, that meticulousness could be his downfall.

“Just something to consider, Minister,” said Savra. “Logistics are of course, your area of expertise and not mine.”

“Yes,” said Moshti, putting down his pencil. His eyes scanned the numbers once more. “I take your point, Majesty.” Whatever point he took, he wasn't saying.

“LOOK OUT!”

A shout from nearby cut off the discussion. Near where they stood, a gang of laborers had been tying down barrels on the end of a barge, when one worker, a slave woman with muscular arms and her hair tied up in a frayed scarf, lost control of the tether. The other workers dove to pick up the slack, but it was too late. The rope strained, then snapped, and the barrels tumbled off the end of the barge.

The Queen and her slaves leapt out of the way just in time, but Moshti wasn’t as nimble. The nearest barrel landed heavily in the mouth of the canal and splattered the shrieking Minister with a substantial payload of water and silt. He cringed at the mess on his fine robes. Savra, standing clean and dry a few meters away, repressed a laugh at her hapless underling.

“Minister Moshti,” she said jovially, “such a state you’re in! We must get you tidied up! Come, Petal!” She clapped her hands and Margot stepped forward. “Take Minister Moshti’s things straight to the laundry! Come back with a towel and a clean coat.” Moshti shrugged off his outermost robe and placed it, damp and dirty, into Margot’s waiting arms. Margot bowed and jogged away back into the palace.

Glad to be out of the sun, Margot hurried through the imposing corridors. She hadn’t fully mapped the palace out in her head yet, but she knew the laundry was on the ground level, past the kitchens. She passed by ornate pillars, flaming torches and imposing statues of former Vaatari monarchs, before a fast-moving glimmer of blue in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She stopped, backed up and turned to look down a small perpendicular passageway. The blue shape was Prince Haftan, moving swiftly away down the dark and narrow corridor. Margot watched him, looked at the bundle of damp and dirty cloth in her arms, then back to Haftan in time to see him disappear through a side door.

It would be a risk, she thought, getting sidetracked like this, but she was here for a reason. Her every instinct told her that she would find some answers at the end of that corridor. Still clutching Moshti’s dirty robe, she pressed herself against the wall and crept down the side passage. It wasn’t a secret passage, exactly, but it was clearly designed to be overlooked, nestled as it was between two massive statues. Margot would certainly have missed it if it hadn’t been for Haftan’s brightly colored robes.

As she reached the side door (really just a barely man-sized gap in the wall), she heard faint voices. She slipped through the gap and found herself at the top of a narrow flight of stone steps. The voices drifted in from somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. She still couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she could tell that one of the voices was Haftan’s.

Slowly, as if moving through water, Margot descended. For once, she was grateful to be barefoot, as it made her steps silent. She quieted her breathing and listened intently. When she reached the bottom landing, she stopped, not wanting to reveal herself around the corner, and she listened.

“Who else might know?” said a deep voice that Margot didn’t recognize.

“I don’t trust that man, Moshti,” That voice was Haftan. “She tells that glorified accountant more than she tells her own kin.”

“Of course,” said the deep voice. “If she hired an assassin, the pencil-pusher would know before anyone. Anyone else?”

“Well,” said Haftan, “My sister has a new favorite slave, a northern girl, very pretty,”

“Get to the point,”

“If Savra has a weakness,” continued Haftan, “It’s her playthings. Sometimes, when having too much fun, she lets things slip. If I can get a moment alone with the girl…”

“I see,” said the other man. “No need to tell me more. Do what you need to, but move quickly.”

“Keep tabs on the Minister,” said Haftan. “We’ll rendezvous again after the next War Council. She won’t take me into confidence, but at least she can't stop me from attending.”

Margot’s mind was reeling. The thought that the belligerent and lecherous Prince Haftan could be an ally to her mission...it seemed inconceivable.

The unknown man clicked his boot heels in a salute.

Her heart racing, Margot turned and ran as quickly and silently as she could, back up the stairs. She slipped back into the side hallway in time to hear Haftan’s shoes ascending the steps behind her. Moshti’s robes spilling out of her arms, she bounded for the daylight of the main corridor, rounding the corner between the statues just in time–

“Miss Petal!”

She skidded to a halt and barely avoided knocking over Bun, who had been sweeping the corridor and looked simultaneously confused and delighted to see her.

“Er--sorry to trouble you, if you're busy," said Bun, glancing at the soiled robes and Margot’s harried expression.

“It’s all right,” said Margot, glancing over her shoulder. “I was just–”

"It’s just, I thought after you went off with Her Majesty," Bun said sheepishly, "I wouldn't be seeing you again."

“It’s just–” Margot began.

"I hope you're well, miss!"

Margot tried to summon a kind word for the girl, but she was interrupted by a hand gripping her shoulder.

“What a delightful surprise!” said Haftan, behind her. “My sister has misplaced her favorite toy.”

Instinct taking hold, Margot turned around slowly, knelt and bowed to him. Bun bowed as well, before backing away with her broom.

“You look lost,” Haftan said matter-of-factly.

“I was on my way to the laundry," Margot replied, "Forgive me. I think I did lose my way.” Haftan reached under Margot’s chin with a finger and tilted her head up to face him.

“Forgive you?” he said. “Whatever for? It’s an unexpected pleasure to have you adorn my path.” He studied her for a reaction. “You’re going the wrong way, though. It's that way, past the kitchens."

Margot carefully considered her response. Haftan seemed to be working toward the same end as herself, but she didn't know his motives. She couldn't risk trusting him yet, but she needed to get close, to learn more. She decided the safest move was to play to his natural prejudices.

“Oh…yes, of course, My Lord. I’m just such a stupid slave girl.”

Haftan cracked a vain half-smile that looked unsettlingly like his sister’s.

“Yes,” he said. “Say that again, would you?”

Margot clenched her fists, avoiding eye contact.

“I’m a stupid slave girl, My Lord.”

“Hmmm, indeed. There must be something you’re good for, though.” Haftan lowered himself to one knee, keeping his hand on her face, “I should very much like to find out what.”

Margot finally looked him straight in the eyes, making her own as wide as she could.

“I hope you will have that chance, My Lord.”

The prince’s eyes flashed. “I begin to understand my sister's obsession,” he breathed.

“She is good to me, your Majesty,” said Margot, then, smiling coyly, she threw out her lure.“But does every girl, slave or free, not dream of a handsome prince?” Haftan closed his hand around the back of her neck. She was reminded of the danger he posed, but she wanted him to think he was in control.

“My rooms are at the top of the north wing,” Haftan said, practically tripping over his words, “if Savra ever lets you out of her sight.” Margot nodded, knowing he was hooked.

Haftan stood as if snapping from a trance and self-consciously straightened his robes.

“What are you gawking at, girl?” he barked at Bun, watching transfixed over Margot’s shoulder. Bun bowed hurriedly, glanced at Margot in amazement, and scurried away down the corridor. Haftan harrumphed to himself, then turned and briskly walked the other direction.

* * *

Margot returned breathlessly to the freight yard, her arms full of clean linens, and found Savra and Moshti more or less where she left them. She dropped to her knees in the dust and held the towels out to Moshti, who snatched them impatiently.

“Where on earth have you been, idiotic girl?” demanded Savra. “The Minister has nearly dried from the wind by now!”

“Apologies, my Queen, I’m so sorry,” Margot said. “I lost my way in the Palace.” She knew her excuse was weak, and hoped what she'd gained would be worth it.

"Hmmm" said Savra, frowning. “Perhaps you’re stupider than I led myself to believe.”

“That’s right, Ma’am," said Margot. She kept her head bowed.

"My own mistake,” Savra sighed. "You will remember the way next time, or you will suffer for it."

"Yes, Majesty," said Margot, relieved. Worth it, then.

While Moshti was absorbed in dabbing at a stain on his robe, the Queen and her escort departed. Margot glanced backward toward the laborers recovering the fallen barrels. The woman whose rope had broken was there, moving slowly and stiffly. Her shirt was torn open, and several fresh blood-red welts burned livid and raw across her back. Margot thought about all the risks she was taking, and wondered how many more chances she had before facing painful and humiliating retribution of her own.

Another very well written chapter Mark, and I am delighted to see the return of 'Bun' - who looks like this in my mind's eye ...

 

[mark sessnatz]

Another very well written chapter Mark, and I am delighted to see the return of 'Bun' - who looks like this in my mind's eye ...

View attachment 1135028

Oh wow! Very different to what I'm imagining, but totally valid! Always enjoy seeing different interpretations

 

[mark sessnatz]

It's been a busy year for me on a personal front, but I'm finally able to complete this adventure.

CHAPTER VI​

The Queen took her bath quickly that night, seeming preoccupied, and dismissed the slaves before retiring restlessly to her bedchamber. Though it was late, and Margot was exhausted, she knew she had work to do, and a rare opportunity to do it. Rather than returning to the lower wing as usual, she instead followed the residential corridor to the north wing, in search of Prince Haftan’s apartments. It wasn’t very far along that she noticed with some confusion that Vine and Dove had not split off, and were following near behind her.

She turned to them, and confusion was just as evident on their own faces. Finally, it was Vine who spoke.

“Prince Haftan told me to come to his rooms tonight,” she said. “He told both of us.” She indicated Dove.

“All three of us, actually,” Margot replied. This possibility hadn’t factored into her plan, and she wondered with a sinking feeling whether Haftan had enough forthrightness in him to be of use to her. She was getting the nagging sense that Haftan’s motives may be a good deal more petty and personal than her own.

The Prince resided in a suite much like his sister’s, though smaller of course. The three of them passed through several layers of ornate doorways and gaudy antechambers before emerging through a set of elegant crimson curtains into Haftan’s sanctum.

Before Margot’s eyes was a lurid tableau of hedonistic indulgence. Long tables lined the walls, overflowing with fresh and dried fruits, decadent cakes, and morsels of spiced meat. Gilded pitchers of fine wine glinted in the light of numerous guttering candles. The floor was littered with silk cushions, and at the center of it all, Prince Haftan reclined on a low sofa, wine goblet in hand, like some wild god of vice and decadence. He was flanked by two of his own slave girls, dressed similarly to Margot only their silks were a deep red instead of black and noticeably more revealing.

“About time!” called the Prince jovially as they entered. “I thought I was going to have to drag you out of Savra’s bed myself!” He wore no shirt, only a light robe thrown open over loose trousers. Though not a large man, his wine-gorged gut protruded over his waist as he sat up. The room felt suffocatingly hot, and the quantity of overlapping aromas was headache-inducing. Margot and the others entered and knelt, none of them sure what was expected of them.

“Get up!” Haftan ordered, gulping the last of his wine. “Petal! Come and sit next to me! You can pour the wine!” He waved his empty cup in the air. “And you!” He grasped in Dove’s direction. “Bring me over a bite to eat!” Margot picked up one of the pitchers and perched next to him on the sofa, while Dove brought one of the fruit trays from the side of the room. Margot filled his cup, and he immediately downed half of it and belched.

“I won’t lie,” he slurred, “I’ve always had a soft spot for northern women. It’s one thing Savra and I have in common.”

“If you’ll forgive my asking, Majesty,” said Margot, topping off his cup. “Are you and her Highness not close?”

“WHAT?” Haftan roared. “How dare you make such an impertinent remark!”

Margot flinched, worried that she’d crossed a line too soon. Then Haftan started laughing and slapped her leg with his free hand.

“I’m only joking!” he chuckled. “Lucky for you, I’m in a good mood! I’ll answer your question, but,” he grinned smugly, “it’ll cost you your shirt!”

Margot fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Come on!” Haftan urged. “It’s a fair exchange!” He slurped his drink and wiped his face on his sleeve.

Margot stood and discarded her half top quickly and mechanically, as though stripping for the bath. Uncertain what he wanted next, she crossed her hands passively behind her back. Haftan’s eyes boggled and he let out a low whistle.

“Fantastic!” Haftan exclaimed, surveying her naked body. “They really don’t make girls like this here. Turn around!”

Margot spun slowly on the spot, displaying herself. The stifling atmosphere of the room was beginning to make her sweat, and her pale skin shimmered appealingly in the barrage of candlelight. Haftan’s eyes roamed from Margot’s shapely breasts to the toned planes of her back.

“Not one scar on you!” he remarked. “You must have pleased your former master!”

“I try to,” she said, turning back and reclaiming her seat. Haftan clumsily handed her his goblet and filled his hand with her breast instead,

“Fair’s fair,” he said. “Savra and I were close as children, it’s true. However, she and I have, let’s say, different priorities in mind for the rule of the country.”

“Do you mean the war?”

“Hey, slow down!” Haftan commanded. “What a nosy little piece of ass you are!” He shook his empty goblet and Margot hastened to refill it. His increasing drunkenness was her only advantage. “Let’s continue the game,” he bellowed. “How about all of the girls show off their goods, eh?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Dove, Vine, and Haftan’s two slaves all moved to strip off their upper garments, but Haftan held up his hand.

“Wait!” Haftan gestured to all the slaves. “All of you on your knees!” They obeyed and Haftan clapped Margot on the shoulder. “You strip them!”

He watched greedily as Margot approached Dove. Their eyes met and Margot made her best effort to wordlessly convey her pity and regret. Dove returned her gaze with one full of sad resignation, but no resentment. She gave no resistance as Margot stripped her of her half top, baring the woman’s lean and muscular dark-skinned torso. She proceeded to do the same with Dove, whose breasts were much fuller and whose body was naturally much softer and curvier, (though as a slave she was certainly not overfed.) Haftan’s slaves both glared at Margot with venom in their eyes as she stripped them, though they could not resist an order from the Prince.

Haftan clapped his hands like a giddy child at the sight. He once more drained his goblet and stuffed his face with fruit.

“Where was I?” he said through a mouthful of pineapple. “Oh yes, the war!” He sighed irritably. “You see–and I wouldn’t expect a slave to understand all the nuance here–”

I’ll try and keep up, Margot thought sarcastically.

“With anyone but Savra on the throne," he said, "we could have taken the whole coast of Merdaine years ago." As he spoke he toyed clumsily with Margot’s breasts. "She's obsessed with that Merdanite princess. As though war were a vain women's catfight!"

He spat the final word and twisted Margot’s nipple in anger. She flinched and repressed a yelp of pain. Wincing, she hastened to refill his goblet. He was drunk enough now that she just had to keep him talking.

"Do any others feel the same way?" Margot prompted.

"Too few," Haftan grumbled. "But that may change."

The goblet slipped out of his hand and clattered on the floor. He hunched forward in his seat, ruminating.

"When her pride goes too far…when she fails so distastrously…" he hiccoughed and seemed to lose track of his sentence.

Suddenly, he leapt to his wobbly feet and lunged at Margot, grabbing her arms with the atavistic strength of a drunk.

"What have you heard, Petal?" the prince bellowed, his breath stinking in her face.


"I don't know what you mean, my prince," said Margot, prompting him to shake her roughly.

"Nonsense! She keeps you close, Petal, I've seen it! Closer than her own family!" Angry tears began to dribble down his beet-red face as the other girls looked on in terror. "She's planning something for the Cypress…something big! And she won't tell me! She WON'T. TELL. ME!"

Overcome with rage, Haftan swung his arm and open-hand slapped Margot brutally across the face, sending her reeling. He stood there like a wild animal, sweating, crying, and panting, while everyone in the room held their breath to see what he would do next.

"Enough games!" he roared, staggering back and rounding on one of his crimson-clad slaves. "Get my riding whip! I need to hit something!" She hurried to obey while her master roamed his glassy eyes around the room, finally settling his gaze on Vine. He pointed at her.

"Lie facedown on the ground!" He commanded her. "You two," he looked at Dove and the other girl, "hold her ankles up!"

Vine prostrated herself on the stone floor as the other two women grabbed hold of her legs and held her bare feet aloft. The girl's sweet smile was nowhere to be seen, replaced by silent sobs of fear and desperation.

Haftan's slave handed him his whip, a stiff leather crop around a meter long, used to compel the oxen who pulled his carriage for sport. He flexed it eagerly in his hands and tested his aim.

Vine braced herself for the blow.

Putting all of his rage and resentment behind his swing, Haftan brought the crop down in a cutting stroke across Vine's vulnerable soles. She squealed piteously and tried to tug her feet out of the warpath, but the other women held her firmly.

Almost immediately, Haftan struck again at full force, drawing another scream and a renewed fountain of tears. He struck again, then again, not waiting between blows, working himself into a frenzy. Vine wailed and squirmed on the floor, twisting her feet this way and that, her toes curling and flexing to their limits trying to relieve the pain.

Vine wasn't the only one crying. Silent tears of pity and shame rolled down Dove's otherwise stoic face as she beheld and abetted the torture, and before long Margot felt wetness on her own face as well.

This was her fault. Vine had done nothing to anger Haftan. It was she who had roused the man's temper with her probing questions. It should be her getting his bastinado. Instead an innocent was suffering in her stead.

At last Haftan exhausted himself and ceased his assault, casting the whip aside. Dove and the other woman released their grip and Vine curled up gingerly into a fetal position on the floor, moaning in torment. The soles of her feet were swollen and bloodied, the countless strikes having raised painful blisters and then broken them.

Haftan grabbed Margot and threw her to her knees at his feet. He fumbled with his trousers and withdrew his pallid, sweaty cock, stroking it to semi-erection. He belched, unsteady on his feet. With his free hand he grabbed Margot's hair.

"Go to work," he grunted. "I need release."

Margot closed her streaming eyes and, as she took the prince's foul organ into her mouth, tried as hard as she could to leave her own body, to be anywhere else, doing anything else.

She tried to picture Lusianna’s bedchamber, the softness of the light from the stained glass window, the softness of the sheets, of her hair…

Haftan grunted and shoved himself violently into her until she gagged. He held her hair and dragged her mouth up and down his rubbery shaft-using her. She didn't have much experience pleasuring men, but he didn't seem to notice or care. She was nothing more to him than a hole.

She tried to blot out the taste of it, the stench of his groin-to remember the taste of Lusianna's lips, the perfume of her arousal…

The only other sounds in the room were Vine's continued sobs. They dragged Margot out of her reverie, clawing at her heart. She felt a deep gnawing shame overcome her. She deserved this. This was punishment.

At last, Haftan released her, staggering back and braying like a mule as his seed gushed violently forth, spilling across his trousers, the floor, and Margot’s chin. She fell to all fours, feeling like she was about to be sick.

Haftan collapsed onto the couch, utterly spent, his last dregs of consciousness rapidly draining.

Margot raised her red-rimmed eyes to stare at the recumbent grotesque, choking on her own bile.

"I'm finished with you all," said Haftan coldly and without looking up. "Get out." His head lolled and he began to snore. Nearby, on the floor, Dove held Vine's head in her lap, stroking her hair, trying to soothe her. She raised her head and met Margot’s gaze. She looked at Margot as though she were the most repulsive, poisonous creature in existence.

For her part, Margot felt like she was.

 

[mark sessnatz]

A shorter interlude...

CHAPTER VII​

Shortly after they left Haftan’s apartment, Margot collapsed against a wall and vomited.

Dove didn’t say a word to her as between them they supported Vine back to their drafty barracks and Margot was too ashamed to try and engage with her anyway. She focused instead on murmuring words of comfort to Vine, who could only respond in soft whimpers and moans.

As they entered the slaves’ quarters, Vine’s cries of pain provoked a stirring from a stall near the doorway. As the figure emerged, half-awake into a shaft of moonlight, Margot saw that it was Bun.

“...Miss Petal?” Bun yawned, her bleary eyes adjusting to the shadows. She then noticed Vine.
“What’s happened to her?” Bun whispered in alarm.

“The prince whipped her,” Margot replied. “She can’t walk. Bun, do you think you can help me?” She and Dove gently lowered Vine onto the sleeping pallet.

“Of course, Miss,” said Bun, rising to her feet.

“You know the pantries better than I do,” said Margot. “Vine needs white willow for the pain and coneflower to prevent infection. And if there’s any vinegar, that would help as well. Is that possible?”

Bun considered it, then nodded. Margot looked at Dove, who knelt next to Vine, holding her hand.

“We’ll be right back,” she said. “You’ll stay with her?”

“You don’t need to tell me,” said Dove icily.

Only one corridor separated the slaves’ quarters from the kitchens. Bun scampered down it mouse-like with Margot following lithely behind, keeping to the shadows. The kitchen itself was empty this late, lit only by the moon and the faint glow of the cauldrons of broth left to simmer through the night. They ducked through an archway into the pantries, a labyrinth composed of rows upon rows of shelves and barrels.

Bun darted through the rows expertly, locating the supplies Margot had requested. As she placed the last of the herbs into Margot’s waiting hands, she placed a hand on Margot’s arm.

“I can tell you’re mad at yourself,” Bun said warmly. “Only what happened to Vine weren’t your fault, miss.”

“I-” Margot began to respond. Tears sprang to her eyes.

“It weren’t, Miss,” she repeated, and studied Margot pensively. “Maybe you ain’t been a slave for very long, but–”

“What?” Margot exclaimed. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s kind of obvious, innit? The way you hold yourself–like a soldier or something. Besides, one of us would know after a while that nothing they do to us here is our fault. I mean it, Miss. Nothing.”

Margot didn’t try to stop the tears. She didn’t know the soft-spoken waif possessed such conviction. Perhaps that was on her for never even considering that she could.

“You don’t got to tell me what you were before they caught you,” Bun continued. “Most of us don’t. But understand–we’ve got to have each other’s backs.” She absentmindedly brushed her scars with her fingertips. Margot finally smiled and grasped Bun’s hand.

***

Back in the quarters, Margot mixed bits of the bark with lukewarm water from the barrel to make a sort of tea for Vine to drink. She then took strong rice vinegar and mixed it with the flowers to make a poultice. With Dove stroking Vine’s hair, cooing comfortingly, Margot took the girl’s wounded feet gently in hand and dabbed the poultice into the bruised and broken skin of her soles. Vine squirmed and sucked in sharp breaths through gritted teeth as the acid and herbs worked their way into the wounds. She squeezed Dove’s hand until her knuckles turned white.

“I know,” Margot whispered as comfortingly as she could. “I know. It will get better, I promise.”

“Whatever it is you’re after,” Dove hissed at Margot. “Leave her out of it from now on.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Margot replied, tying moistened rags around Vine’s feet.

“You might know herbs,” Dove said accusingly, “but a gardener wouldn’t know field medicine like you do.”

Margot had no response.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Dove continued. “Just don’t count on our help. We’ve suffered enough for you.” The words stabbed Margot like spear tips.

“Understood,” was all she could say.

As Dove went back to stroking Vine’s hair, cradling her head gently in her lap, Vine reached a trembling hand toward Margot. Margot took it.

“Hey,” Vine said in a voice hoarse and choked from screaming. “I don’t blame you.” She barely managed an encouraging smile, before finally drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

Margot sat and held her hand until dawn.