SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows)

by Jenna Waterford

  The Red Boar played at egalitarianism, and anyone could gain entrance to the central salon if they had the price of admission, but it took either good connections or a much larger investment to move beyond that central salon to the exclusive gaming parlors, private rooms, and streeters’ beds which lay beyond.

  And there were reasons for this. Harly had a plan. Michael didn’t know what it was, but he knew these specially-requested assignations he agreed to from time to time were a part of this larger plan. Harly would request his cooperation, and he would bed whatever special patron Harly wanted him to bed, and, much more importantly to Harly, he would learn whatever useful secrets the men were foolish enough to divulge.

  Michael had become very good at extracting secrets from men determined to impress him. His highborn airs, education, and beauty lulled them into a sense of being amongst their own kind; his notorious past with Prince Leovar, Camarat’s scandalous heir to the throne, lent him a sort of highborn-by-proxy status in their eyes.

  Most of the men who burbled secrets at him assumed he already knew far more than he did. Leovar had always been circumspect when it came to matters of state, though he’d been a great one for filthy stories, gossip, and nikking in barely-concealed alcoves.

  And tonight, some mouth-breathing, firstborn lordling gets to paw me because Harly said if-you-please. It annoyed him. He never felt more like a whore than at these moments. But it could be worse. I could be wearing a dress and nikking anyone and everyone I’m told to down at the One-Eyed Sailor.

  As the Seventh Prayer bell began to toll far off in the distance, the Auditor walked through the glass doors, pausing to gaze around at all of them with a fond smile on his face. Michael thought the rail-thin, over-tall man was surely one of the oddest he’d ever met, but he never failed to be delighted to see them all.

  “Likes our money, ‘e does,” Irini muttered as Michael moved to the bar to ask the barmaid for a cup of coffee and to store his notebook behind the bar for safekeeping until he went home. Meanwhile, the Auditor worked painstakingly through the group, alphabetically. As usual, the barmaid gave him his cup with a wink and a stunning smile, and, as usual, he winked back.

  He’d half-finished his first cup by the time the Auditor got to him, and they went through the ritual of figuring up the amount Michael owed the Crown and then counting it out precisely. The Auditor wrote up the receipt, initialing it, having Michael initial it, and then taking out his heavy embosser and squeezing the Royal Seal into the paper for good measure.

  Though many moons had passed since the first time Michael had gone through this little ceremony, the Auditor patted him on the arm as he moved on to the next girl, saying, as he always did, “You’re the most successful boy streeter in all of Fensgate.” Michael suspected he was the most successful streeter, but the Auditor was judicious, surrounded, as he was, by his competitors for that title.

  “It doesn’t hurt that you’re the most beautiful boy...well, most beautiful anything in all of Fensgate.” Risa flicked Michael’s cheek with the end of her feather-edged scarf.

  Smiling sourly, Michael made a rude gesture at her—one of the small vocabulary of hand-signal words the Red Boar streeters used to talk about their patrons without anyone knowing. Even Daren, the strong-arm, didn’t know what all of the signals meant. Risa laughed and made an even ruder gesture back at him, turning his sour smile into an answering laugh.

  He stood beside her, transformed from the half-starved, cringing, miserable boy she’d escorted from the hospital so many moons ago into a slender, elegant, sleepy-eyed beauty, in such high demand he was able to turn down more offers than he accepted while still earning enough to pay all of his obligations. Risa had kept her promise to make him famous, but he valued much more highly his acceptance as a part of Fensgate’s humble society—an unexpected but welcome side-benefit of his arrangement with the Red Boar.

  And he was not the only former ward of JhaPel who now worked at the Red Boar. Nella, with whom he’d once shared a lovely ongoing flirtation and some even more lovely kisses, had shown up at the back entrance a few moons ago. She’d been thrown out of the highborn house where she’d been apprenticing to be a ladies’ maid when she’d been caught by the lady of the house having sex with the lord.

  At least she enjoyed her fall. That much was clear to Michael. Maybe being a streeter wouldn’t have been her first choice, but, like Risa, it wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her, either, and now she had the honor of being the youngest and prettiest of the girls.

  Having just finished with the Auditor, Nella moved to stand by one of the windows facing the street, where she nursed a cup of coffee and frowned at whatever it was she saw. The curtains were drawn back to catch the waning daylight, and, his attention drawn by Nella’s stare, Michael could see that someone was standing out at the post in the middle of the roundabout, doing something.

  “Oh, shize, is it another notice?” Irini crossed the room to stand in the door and have a better look.

  Sighing, Michael pushed himself away from the bar where he’d been standing. “I’ll go see what it says,” he announced as he headed out to take a look. He was the only one at the Red Boar aside from Harly who could read. Harly’s literacy was minimal and more geared toward bookkeeping and contracts. Michael, on the other hand, could—and did—read books.

  All the girls already done with the Auditor followed him out, darting across the cobblestones as the traffic passed by—drivers swearing—to the safety of the post’s island. Others had already begun to gather and some were squinting at the black ink glyphs they couldn’t decipher, frowning at what could only be bad news. In no time at all, a crowd had gathered. When they saw Michael, however, they parted to let him reach the notice.

  The paper was already growing translucent in the heavy, misting rain, making the print hard to read. “Taxes are going up again,” he called. Others repeated his words to make sure everyone heard, and a series of groans sounded at each repetition, though it was only what they all had expected.

  “On everything?” someone asked.

  “Everything that matters to us.” More groans, but the noise subsided respectfully as Michael began to read off the percentages listed, taxing every way anyone in Fensgate could possibly earn a living. The crowd dispersed slowly, a few leaving to mourn their personal bad news after he’d read off each listing.

  The news was worst for him, however, since his profession had the highest tax levied against it. No matter that he’d been forced into the work he did by the very law which moved closer and closer with every new proclamation to taking half of what he earned away from him.

  “How are we supposed to make a living when they keep taking our clink like this?” Nella demanded.

  Risa shook her head. “At least they’re not outlawing us. Then I’d have to go to the sweats.” She cast a sudden, guilty glance at Michael who pretended not to see.

  “Let’s hope they don’t.” Not that he wanted to be a streeter, but he knew from bitter experience that it was better than starving to death, and the workhouse was not an option for a heretic.

  Nella grimaced but her face shifted into a coquettish smile when she saw one of her regulars approaching the inn. The daylight was almost gone, signaling the start of their work hours. She left Michael and Risa in order to catch the man before he had time to see someone he liked better.

  Most everyone else seemed to be staying outside, talking about the notice and the ever-rising taxes, and the latest news of the war—whatever allowed them to put off the inevitable for a few more tics.

  A loud shout of “Oy, look out!” came from the far end of the block, and Michael turned, reached out, and caught the trimble ball that had been headed right for them.

  A few shouts of congratulations rang out from the boys playing the game along with some scattered applause from passersby. Michael had an uncanny ability to catch seemingly impossible pitches which made him an invaluable player.

  �
�Come on, Michael!” one of the One-Eyed Sailor’s boys yelled. He had his skirts hitched up and his wig was askew. “Come and play on our team.”

  Michael cast a sidelong glance at Risa who arched an eyebrow above an indulgent smirk. “Your appointment isn’t due ‘til Last Prayer, and I doubt you’ll starve if you get a late start on the night.” She waved him on his way. “I’ll tell Daren where you are so he won’t fret.”

  Pol had emerged from the stables at some point, and he caught up with Michael as he headed to join the game.

  “Sorry about the taxes.” He got past the awkward topic as quickly as possible.

  “Yeah,” Michael replied. “Let’s trounce ‘em, all right?”

  # # #

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The days warmed and the sun shone more often, and Michael spent many days in Carillon Park. He happily sacrificed sleep for sunlight and the joy of being seen as something besides a whore, but summers were short in Camarat and too soon, the days cooled and the rain began to fall more often.

  On the first cold day of autumn, Michael arrived at the Red Boar thinking only about getting himself a cup of hot, strong coffee. Doing so was not so simple a matter. He’d arrived a bit after doors-open, after the crowds had already gathered around the gaming tables, and it seemed that at least one person at every table he passed wanted him to stop.

  He blew on dice for luck, flirted, teased, and generally charmed his way past these obstacles, but as it was, he had several offers to choose from by the time he’d reached the bar.

  Over the moons, he’d developed a clientele, and it was a rare thing, now, when he spent time with anyone new. Tonight, his first appointment was with a socially ambitious merchant named Logan. He was one of what Risa referred to as Michael’s Royalists, this thanks to the fact that much of Michael’s fame derived from a period early in his career when he had been the favorite of Prince Leovar.

  The foolish young highest-born, barely seventeen himself to Michael’s then-twelve, and at least half-drunk most of the time, had been treated to a night of debauchery at the Red Boar by his hangers-on. He’d seen Michael and that had been that.

  After their first night together, Leovar had fancied himself in love, and, as the usual rules of the Red Boar didn’t apply to royalty, Michael had been compelled to accompany the prince to all sorts of society events it was thoroughly inappropriate for a streeter to attend.

  Leovar had been an awkward date at the best of times, spoiled and prone to overdressing and then complaining constantly about the heat. In spite of his rather spectacular unattractiveness, sparse hair, and bad teeth, he’d been shockingly vain and desperate for attention. Michael’s duties as escort had included catering to the prince’s exhibitionist desires by which means, Michael gathered, Leovar hoped to shock and outrage the stuffier highborns he so disdained.

  Michael’s extremely expensive and provocative boots had been a gift from the prince. His lingering fame had been another, less intentional one.

  The so-called Royalists were those who hoped to gain some fame or advancement for themselves by taking up with Michael. It was a sadly mistaken belief on their part, for the prince—humiliatingly admonished in public by his outraged mother, Queen Grania, and shipped off to the war to sober up and “become a man”—no longer wanted, by all reports, to so much as hear Michael’s name spoken.

  Now, Michael had a bit of time to kick his heels while the Royalist in question finished his card game. Michael hoped he’d win so his mood would be at its best. Winners tended to be more generous.

  He lit an herbal smoke while he waited for the barmaid to prepare his drink for him and took a long drag as he waved away yet another hopeful suitor.

  He took his cup of coffee over to a small table beside the fire, shaking his head at two or three men as he passed to keep them from joining him. Luxury had once impressed him, but just as he now found it easy to dismiss suitors, he no longer paid any attention to the expensive brass fixtures, rich carpets, and roaring fires that filled the Red Boar.

  He was surprised when he noticed how white his knuckles were, and he eased his grip on his mug’s handle. He’d buried his hatred of this life under layers of secret plans for escape, all of which depended on the money he earned with his body. The last several Auditor’s visits had been painful, since the tax increase, and he couldn’t stop thinking with every patron how much less of the money he earned was going into his secret escape fund.

  It isn’t fair. He knew it was a childish thought, but his every clink was minted in blood and sweat and unshed tears that the queen—damn her to the Fires—thought she deserved half of.

  He took a long drag on the smoke and held it for a moment before slowly exhaling the sweet fumes. It helped a little. He didn’t like to resort to drugging himself into relaxation, but he’d been using the smokes more often lately than he liked to admit. It never gets easier.

  “You are posts and posts away, dear.” Varian took the seat across the table from him. “I’ve been trying to capture your attention ever since you sat down!”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be playing?” Michael let the smoke trickle from his mouth as he spoke. He liked Varian well enough, and he loved the music the young man played, but his persistent flirting was irritating.

  “On my break, aren’t I? As you must be, just sitting here muttering darkly to yourself. Or have you been stood up?” Varian looked disbelieving as he suggested this, then sighed dramatically and cast Michael an arch look. “Had I even a single clink to exchange for your kiss, I should be a happy man.”

  The herbal smoke had started to work its magic, and Michael found himself smiling at the musician’s sally. “A kiss is all you’d get for a clink,” he retorted.

  Varian clutched his hands to his chest and threw himself against the chair back. “A hit!” he cried, though his well-trained voice carried only across the table to Michael’s ears. “You wound me, darling. I am in agony at your indifference.”

  “Well, it would be a very good kiss.” Varian mock-glared at him, and Michael shook his head. “Nevertheless.” He took another drag on his dwindling smoke. “As we have discussed any number of times, Varian, it is the money I am fond of, not the men.”

  “Greedy,” Varian accused in a teasing tone. “But, then, you can be, can’t you? I’ve never seen anyone with your confidence.”

  Michael frowned at the musician, fearing a new bawdy ballad was being composed behind those laughing eyes. “What are you talking about now?”

  Varian sighed again, a faraway look in his eyes. “Everyone wants to have you, and you wield our desire like a weapon against us all. It’s breathtaking just to watch you destroy the powerful with a single shake of your head.”

  Eyes rolling, Michael turned away from Varian to scan the room for his patron. “I’ve never heard such nonsense,” he muttered.

  “Nonsense? How can you expect me to believe that someone who is so good at what he does as you are isn’t even a little fond of it?”

  Michael’s hand flipped out in a habitual, dismissive gesture which had the benefit of flicking the ashes from the end of his smoke. “I’m not saying it doesn’t feel good sometimes,” he allowed. “But just because what’s happening is pleasant doesn’t mean I like whoever’s doing it to me.”

  “And yet you alone are able to resist the lovely Nella! How am I to believe your protests when you can do such a thing?”

  Why does the argument that I’m only thirteen never seem to be good enough for anyone? His irritation reasserted itself. He didn’t know where he had acquired this mindset—maybe somewhere in the unknown reaches of my locked memory. In Fensgate, at least, thirteen wasn’t very young. He’d heard of girls who’d married at thirteen, and Risa’s daughter had been born when she was only a year or so older.

  “I don’t like to be touched by anyone.” Michael quirked a half-smile at Varian. “I only do it for the money.”

  Varian looked both confused and a little shocked by t
his confession, but as he opened his mouth to respond, Michael’s patron arrived.

  “There you are, my little beauty,” Logan said, loudly enough for it to be obvious he was asserting his right to monopolize Michael’s time. He sat down in the chair beside the boy and scooted it even closer as his hand found the top of Michael’s boot and started exploring. He flicked a dismissive glance at Varian, who skittered away as quickly and quietly as possible. “Did I make you wait long?”

  “Too long.” Michael covered his reflexive disgust at being touched by turning away to toss his smoke into the fire. Logan didn’t seem to notice.

  He wound the boy’s long, raven-black braid around his hand and pulled him close for a long, desperate kiss. Logan was the sort who liked to show off and had asked that they meet in the central salon rather than in the privacy of Michael’s suite. Though he disliked being so blatantly displayed, this was not an uncommon request for a Royalist. And Logan always agreed to pay extra for the privilege.

  If only there were some way to do this without being touched. As soon as he thought this, Michael stiffened in anticipation of an encouraging word from the Voice in his head, but it remained blessedly silent for once. The Voice’s intention seemed to be to comfort him, but it only annoyed and angered and sometimes frightened him.

  Bad enough he could hear the thoughts and feel the feelings of other people; bad enough he’d been branded a witch and heretic and become a streeter on top of it all—he certainly didn’t wish to go insane, complete with hearing voices. But who can hear anything over the noise Logan’s mind is making? He couldn’t even hear Varian’s music.

  By the time he finished for the night, the sun was lightening the sky. It was a lovely thing to see, and Michael felt almost cheerful as he turned down the narrow alley. He breathed easier as he always did when he’d reached the unassuming boardinghouse.