Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 27
Chapter 27
By dawn’s early light, everything looked grey – the mist, the water, the river bank reeds, even Dashing Daniel’s hat hanging from the stumpy mast. In contrast was the joyful cacophony of a myriad unseen birds. The gunwale felt smooth under my fingers, polished – I imagined – by the passage of many feet. The hold smelt of yesterday’s sweat – the girls had been too tired to wash the night before.
Nobody else seemed to be awake. Several of the girls were snoring softly. The noise of my chain, as I moved slightly, didn’t seem to disturb them. For all of that, I tried to remain as still as possible.
For what seemed a long time, I gazed toward the other bank where a water vole had its burrow. The mist was beginning to lift and colours started to resolve themselves. The reed stalks were straw coloured, the mud a dark brown, the voles’ fur a shade somewhere in between. The hedge was a dull green, the field beyond several shades lighter.
Carp-eye Smith’s voice cut into my reverie: “Come on ladies! Rise and shine! We’ll be at journey’s end before lunch!”
Waiting for him to unlock my tether, I prayed – fingering the little goddess. It occurred to me for the first time that the pollygoggers hadn’t damaged my beautiful harness. In view of the sapphires, it was an odd omission – presumably they hadn’t recognised the gems for what they were. The circumstance seemed a good omen, perhaps a sign from the goddess that I would ultimately be delivered.
At breakfast, the bread was hard and the bitty ale entirely flat. Juicelle’s complaints were audible through the open cabin door. Like my fellow towing slaves, I ignored her – eating and drinking what was provided. Finishing the meal, I realised that Juicelle had moved on to another topic.
“…well beyond the danger zone here…” She sounded exasperated. “It’s past time you gave them back to me.”
“I don’t reckon it that way,” Carp-eye replied. “Even here we might happen on a patrol. Best you stick to slave gear.”
“I insist upon the return of my clothes.”
“An’ I insist as we leaves it until we moor in Lundin. It’ll be but a few hours now.”
“You listen here, mister – and listen good…”
The dialogue was interrupted by Dashing Daniel, approaching from downstream: “Lock keeper says as to wait. Not full tide yet. We got plenty o’ time, anyways, might as well go with the flow.”
“How long till the tide turns?” Carp-eye asked, his back turned to Juicelle.
“Hour, hour an’ a half tops.”
“Yeah, we’ll wait in that case. We don’t want our cargo looking too worn out, haulin’ against the tide. Their families are like to ask for a discount if they turns up too sweaty.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Well – first time for everything. You never know. I wouldn’t put it past Bill Esset to try an’ knock us down, anyways. Mean bugger!”
“Ain’t he just! I gotta admit you’ve a point, there, broster.”
In the background, Juicelle continued to air her grievances. Neither pollygogger responded to the complaints. Also doing my best to ignore her, I chatted to my fellow towing slaves. It was a surprise to discover that I wasn’t the only one to prefer slavery to a family reunion.
“My lot are right miserable buggers,” Minqusi said.
“They can’t be much worse than mine. And like as not, they’ll still want me to marry that bloody Bert Laurence,” Fondlibelle said. “I’d rather be back with me mistress.”
“Me, too,” said Pritti, “she was nice. You don’t realise at the time, do you? Not until some interfering dipshit of a pollygogger grabs you. She used to say to me – you were so well named, you pretty slave.”
“It’s funny you should say that because mine used to like to fondle my…”
Then, just as the conversation was taking a particularly interesting turn, Dashing Daniel started to bark orders, and we hastened to obey. I never learnt what part of her body the mistress liked to fondle, but knew which I’d have chosen. Had Fondlibelle been immediately in front or behind me on the line, I would have asked. Unfortunately, four girls hauled between us.
A quarter of an hour later, we towed the boat from the lock and were on our way. The ground was soft enough to be easy on my feet, but not so muddy as to bog me down. The boat moved more easily than on the previous day, probably because the tide assisted us to pull. The main difficulty was in preventing the vessel from drifting out into midstream, and I wondered what would happen if we let go of the towing line.
Long before noon, and making good speed, we passed the first ruinous shanties of outer Lundin. The squalid region seemed not to have changed since I’d last seen it. Rats scuttled through rubbish heaps, sometimes pursued by lean dogs. Ragged children pelted one another with filth – Carp-eye levelled a small crossbow in their direction.
“The first one to mess me boat – or the tow line slaves – is dead,” he called – his voice matter-of-fact, rather than angry.
The urchins seemed to believe him, within moments they were gone. A cart drawn by trimmed he-slaves brought a fresh load of rubbish. Circling gulls descended as its contents were tipped. Human scavengers appeared – it was impossible to tell whence they came.
As ever, a fog bank enfolded the West Minester marshes. With the gloom closing upon me, I shuddered – in spite of the company of my fellow slaves, this place was still frightening. Glancing nervously at the wraiths of swirling mist, I saw the vague outline of something bulky. It occurred to me that it might be the rock on which Jenna had initiated our first game of mistress and slave.
At last we reached the remains of the Old Time bridge at the end of Well In Ten’s Street. Carp-eye shouted that we were to stop pulling, and hold the boat steady. Checking the forward motion required considerably more effort than allowing it to continue – I dug my heels into the mud. Dashing Daniel dropped the tiller to fasten the aft line to a buoy.
A few yards downstream I could see the Pier Victoria and the end of the processional route. Captain Major Flight’s ill-fated expedition came to mind. The place where his man o’ war had been berthed was occupied by a cargo boat from which cheeses, sides of bacon and other farm produce were unloaded. Since the pier had never been for private use, presumably the food was destined for my father’s palace.
The pier guards seemed twitchy. Two or three levelled crossbows in our direction. Another scurried into the guardhouse. A couple of minutes later the captain emerged, adjusting his helmet strap – the bedragglement of the plume suggesting that it had been carelessly tossed aside.
The officer raised a megaphone to his lips. A stiff westerly breeze was rolling rain clouds in our direction – and blowing sounds, loud or soft, downstream. His unaided voice would have been lost. The amplification was barely sufficient for me to discern his words.
“Hoi!” he hailed us. “Who goes there? What’s your business?”
“Stand down, we’re friends,” Dashing Daniel replied, having secured the bow line and cupping hands to his cheeks. “Just a boat of harmless pollygoggers with a cargo of rescued maidens[1].”
“We’ll have to check.”
Five minutes later, a sergeant and a couple of guardsmen appeared. They thudded down a set of rotting steps. The structure didn’t look strong enough to withstand such violence, but it held. The decay must have been more superficial than it appeared.
Poking into every cranny of the boat, the soldiers made a thorough search. Escorting them with a set of keys, Dashing Daniel opened several lockers. Juicelle remained quiet. Evidently, the only thing they found fit to query was Carp-eye’s small crossbow.
“What’s that for?” the sergeant asked. “This is a peaceable city – an’ we intend ter keep it that way.”
One of the guards chuckled. My impression was that he didn’t consider Lundin very peaceable[2]. His superior gave him a withering glare. The laughter died almost before it had begun.
“Just for personal protection,” Carp-eye assured the sergeant. “Not for Lundin, o’ course. But only a fool would go into Surrey unarmed.”
“True, very true. I can’t fault you on that. Just mind yer keep it fer Surrey, eh? Now, at about this point, most gennelmen in your position…”
There was no need to complete the sentence. Carp-eye reached into a pouch and handed over a few coins. The sergeant weighed them judiciously in his palm and, evidently deciding that the tip[3] was insufficient, frowned. For a minute or two there was an uneasy silence.
Then Carp-eye added three or four extra coins. Again, the sergeant weighed them in his palm. This time a smile creased his features. The guards ascended the steps, their upward progress less heavy footed than had been the descent.
Dashing Daniel followed the guards. Craning my neck, I saw the soldiers turn right, towards the Pier Victoria. The pollygogger turned left into what looked to be a half-derelict warehouse. There was a sign over the door with flaking black lettering on what had once been a white or cream ground – it read Wm. Esset Head Broker and De…, the rest was entirely illegible.
The rogue was selling his cargo, albeit by private treaty rather than public auction. My anger with the pollygoggers was now joined by a burning hatred toward the head broker. At least my captors had taken the risk of seizing slaves from Surrey. When Esset re-sold slaves to their families – or whomever – his profit in crime was clearly won with little hazard.
In view of the undertaking to the sergeant, I assumed that we’d seen the last of the small crossbow. Turning my eyes from the door through which Dashing Daniel had vanished, I was surprised to see that Carp-eye was pointing the weapon at we towing line slaves. The string was drawn back, ready for use. He levelled it at no one in particular, but succeeded in threatening all.
“Well, ladies,” he said, the wind blowing the words in our direction, “we’re home an’ safe out o’ Surrey – but there’s no call for any of you to be runnin’ off to yer folks straight away. You’ll be able do that all in good time. First, there needs to be a spot o’ profit for me an’ Dashin’ Daniel – an’ maybe for Bill Esset, the head broker, too. Meanwhiles, it’d be a real shame if me crossbow went off be accident, an’ someone got hurt.”
Juicelle’s strident voice rose from the stern: “Mr Smith, I have no objection to you – or anyone else – making a fair profit, but I demand my clothes. There’s no earthly reason for withholding them a minute longer. Give them to me!”
“Well I dunno about that,” he said, turning the crossbow in her general direction. “Me an’ Dashin’ Daniel have had second thoughts about you. I don’t think you’ll need your clothes, after all.”
There followed a stream of invective which doesn’t merit the dignity of writing. Juicelle accused the pollygoggers of abominations of which they were certainly guiltless. Some were physically impossible – or, at least, I hope so. Several of the towing line slaves tried to stop their ears, Carp-eye listened impassively.
“There may be a lot of justice in what you say,” he said when Juicelle paused – possibly for breath, or to devise fresh oaths. “But we’ve got to think of our profits – you’ve paid us once, which good, I’ll grant you. On the other hand, if we take your money pouches, we’ll be paid twice, which is even better to my way of thinkin’. Best of all, maybe, would be sellin’ your carcass to Bill Esset, an’ bein’ paid three times.”
Juicelle produced a further torrent of language that Madame Scurf wouldn’t have tolerated from the mouths of her whores. She did not, however, attempt to advance on the crossbow. Carp-eye gave the impression that he would shoot, if need be. The towing line slaves sought the safety of the hold.
Following my companions into their refuge, the Pier Victoria caught my eye. The sergeant and his guards were looking our way. It occurred to me that they might intervene against Carp-eye’s possibly murderous intent. Looking more carefully, I realised that they were laughing – although the sound was lost on the breeze.
Turning my gaze back to the steps, I saw that Dashing Daniel was returning, accompanied by – a step or two behind – a fat man looking to be in his fifties, presumably the wretch, Esset. He was almost bald, such hair as he retained plastered with grease. A large gold ring pierced one ear lobe. His suit was of a violent green and yellow check, smeared with what were probably bodily secretions and flecked with ash from a cigarette[4] that dangled at his lip.
“There she is!” Dashing Daniel exclaimed, pointing to Juicelle. “Must be worth a fortune – Juliet Justice on the run from the Triumvirate, an’ disguised as a slave. How much d’you reckon they’d pay for her?”
“Maybe, maybe,” Esset said, coughing but not removing his cigarette. “All the same, tradin’ into Surrey is easier said than done. I’m not sure as ’ow I wants the trouble. In any case, ’ow am I ter know she really is what y’ say.”
“We got papers an’ everythin’. It’s all sewn up.”
“I’ll sew you – you…” Juicelle shrieked, before launching into a further series of lurid curses.
“Yeah, all right,” Esset conceded, “with language like that, I reckon she’s what you say she is.”
Dashing Daniel was approaching the foot of the steps, almost within Juliet Justice’s grasp. She leapt forward – possibly intent upon escape, possibly to attack. The pollygogger extended a hand to her neck and, a moment later, she lay crumpled at his feet. For a moment I thought that he’d strangled her, before reflecting that his hand had surely not been at her throat for sufficiently long – in any case he was unlikely to kill so valuable a prize.[5]
Taking two lengths of cord from his pocket, he moved swiftly to bind her wrists and ankles. The knots looked every bit as tight and secure as mine had been two days before. Esset took from his jacket pocket what, at first, I took to be a cigarette case. When he opened the hinged lid and removed a small object, it was obviously nothing to smoke – but I couldn’t, at first, identify it.
“Well,” Esset announced, “if she’s to be sold back into Surrey, it’d best be as a slave – you don’t sell persons. Let’s make it legal with an X double bar mark.[6]”
It was then that I recognised the object in his hand as a miniature tattooing needle. When the instrument touched Juliet Justice’s thigh, she moaned softly, then, as the point sank in, awoke with a shriek. Dashing Daniel held her still, while the head broker completed his work. The job done, the two men stood back from her, while she struggled uselessly with her bonds, shouting incoherently.
“If you’ll jus’ pipe down,” Dashing Daniel said quietly when she paused for breath, “I’ll let you know where you stand.”
There was silence. Juliet Justice opened and closed her mouth noiselessly, like a fish. Dashing Daniel flexed his wrists, as though grasping an imaginary whip. We tow slaves stood in the hold and stared.
“Good, maybe you’re learning to hold your tongue – that’ll be a useful lesson,” the pollygogger said. “You asked Susan Blackwood[7] to arrange a passage to Lundin, thinking that the enemies of your enemies would be your friends. That’s if you thought at all.”
“You…”
“Ah! Hold your tongue now – I have the whip hand – literally.”
Lifting a hinged seat to port of the tiller, he withdrew a length of plaited leather. It was no torment instrument, but obviously useful enough. He ran it over her shoulders, no more than a tickling motion. Juliet shuddered.
“Did you not think of the Statute of Outlawry[8] – which makes every emper, an’ especially the Nine o’ Surrey, an outlaw in Lundin? You have no legal rights here. None at all.”
“But there is no longer a Nine – it’s been abolished. How can I be outlawed?”
“An interesting legal point.” He cracked the whip hard across her back – she screamed as though she’d never been whipped before. “But I’m not sure how you’re goin’ to test it in court. As I say, I have the whip hand.”
After he had delivered several more lashes, each harder than the one before, Juliet turned her tear-streaked face towards us. We laughed – the mockery of slaves must have delivered an added, bitter, blow. Her face screwed up like a discarded paper. Abruptly, the laughter died in my throat – she and I were victims of the same pollygoggers, sisters on two sides of one villainy.
Without a thought, I started toward the stern. Carp-eye’s crossbow levelled on me, to drop as he saw that I wasn’t attempting to jump to the bank. Daniel and Esset looked puzzled, but made no move to stop me. I took Juliet in my arms, rocking, comforting, as I would have done Tuerquelle – or, indeed, any fellow slave in distress.
Juliet wept on my breast for what seemed a long time. She felt warm and solid – like any healthy slave, or person. I wondered at the hostility I’d born her not long before. My tender, chaste, kisses fell upon her brow.
“Come on, now,” a soft voice said at last, “time for your friend to go.”
Glancing up, I saw that Carp-eye had spoken. Only he, Juliet and I remained – all of the others had gone. He was smiling – the most pleasant expression I’d seen him adopt. It seemed to me that he was glad that someone had shown some kindness to the luckless woman.
Reluctantly, I disentangled myself from the still sobbing Juliet. Carp-eye ran what was probably my tethering chain of the previous night from my left ankle to a stout ring set into the deck. As he was completing this action, his eyes focused upon me with sudden interest. Until he spoke again, I thought that his attention was fixed upon my breasts.
“Funny I hadn’t noticed before,” he said, “but them’s nice stones on yer harness.”
“Glass,” I lied, “a copper or two apiece. What do you expect – real sapphires on a slave?”
“O’ course not – don’t talk soft – an’ I can tell real from fake as well as anyone. I jus’ meant as they was nice for blue glass slave ornaments. More than a copper or two apiece, I’d say, maybe a couple o’ bob.”
“But not a fortune.”
“No – not a fortune, but you’re worth better than a fortune. You’re our ticket for a bill of absolution and a letter of marque[9]. An’ that’s why you’re to wait on the boat for now, in a bit we’ll take you to yer daddy – personal. Bill Esset’s having all the others, but he ain’t havin’ you – no way!”
Carp-eye picked Juliet from the deck as though she were a sack of turnips. He tossed her over his broad shoulder, seemingly without effort. Laden with his breathing cargo, he stepped from the boat. Juliet turned her moist eyes toward me.
“Thank you, Tuerqui,” she said. “You didn’t have to comfort me – but you did. I think you’re the first real friend I’ve ever had. I shan’t forget you.”
“Goodbye,” I replied. “I wish you a good life as a slave. It’ll maybe turn out better than you expect. All of my real friends have been made since I was enslaved.”
As I said the words, I realised that they were true. In personage, those I had considered my friends – one way or another – had turned out not to be. Jenna was the supreme example. As a slave, my ownership of nothing ensured that friendships were genuine.
By the time I framed this thought, Carp-eye was on the bottom step. Unable to think of anything further to say to Juliet, I watched in silence until she vanished through Esset’s door. When she had gone, I indulged in a few tears of my own. In spite of that token of vulnerability, a plan of revenge was rising unbidden within me – driving before it my recent gentleness.
By the time Carp-eye returned to unlock my tethering chain, the vengeance scheme was fully formed. I had seen where the pollygoggers were weakest – at my mercy. On perceiving the trap I was about to lay, they would be already enmeshed. My lips twitched into an invitation – radiant, but filled with guile.
“You were glad that I was nice to Juliet, weren’t you, Carp-eye?”
“Yeah – I was. What of it?”
“I don’t know. I suppose your being pleased showed that you had a softer side. And I wanted to say that I was sorry. Truly I am.”
“Sorry for what?”
“I’m sorry to have been such a trouble. I’ve come to my senses. Maybe it was what happened to Juliet that showed me the reality of slavery and personage. Anyway, I’m grateful – and I’d like to show you just how grateful I am.”
“Well – in that case – you can be good, an’ not kick up no trouble on the way to yer daddy’s palace.”
He unlocked my tethering chain. Stretching myself languidly, seductively, I ensured that my body was displayed to good advantage. Carp-eye looked doubtful. I pouted.
“I’ll do that, of course. But there are better ways for a girl to show her gratitude.”
My fingers brushed expertly across his flies. It was a long time since I’d practised the skills learnt at the Laughing Phallus, but they returned to me without effort. Instantly, I felt his penis stiffen. The success gave me an unexpected sense of professional pride.
“Come on,” I whispered, “we’ll be more private in the cabin.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then was lost. I knew enough to have any penis jumping through the hoop – whoredom had been the only real profession I’d ever followed. He clattered after me, down the steps into the cabin. I turned toward him, tongue rolling lasciviously over my upper lip.
His arms encircled me and our lips met. My tongue touched his. Reaching down, I teased his penis, increasing its excitement without immediate risk of ejaculation. I regarded the process in the detached manner adopted in the Laughing Phallus – easy, in spite of his member revolting me.
We sank to the floor, me on top. I unfastened his fly, reaching into his filthy undergarment. Pausing only to finger myself to ensure lubrication, I slipped his penis inside me. Moments later, he spurted.
The business had proved less unpleasant than I’d expected. Although I took no pleasure in him as such, there was an unanticipated element of arousal in contemplating my revenge – the link between sex and power, most certainly. There may even have been a slight disappointment that he’d lasted no longer, but if so, it was my fault – with my skills, he could have continued for half an hour, had I so chosen. It felt good in itself to be that much in control – our battle raging on the field of my choice.
“Come on,” I chided, “do yourself up before Daniel comes back.”
As I rose from him, his now flaccid penis slipped out. He struggled to his feet, obviously agitated by strong emotion. I fastened his fly – he was shaking too much to shift for himself. My impression was of this being his first experience of sexual congress in a long time.
“That was lovely,” he whispered. “Thank you. I never expected…”
“Oh, never mind what you expected. We’d better go back up on deck and wait for Daniel.”
Dashing Daniel was already descending the steps, an evidently heavy bag in his arms. Suspiciously, he glanced at us. With studied nonchalance, I tidied my hair, deliberately increasing his suspicion through a seeming attempt to allay it. By the time he clambered aboard, Daniel had obviously reached his conclusions.
“What were you two doing down there?” he asked – more of an accusation than a question – and with a double meaning in the last two words.
“Come on down, and I’ll show you,” I purred.
“Now wait a minute…” Carp-eye broke in, hurt showing in his eyes.
“Now now, Carp-eye,” I reproved, “there’s no call for you to be jealous. Surely, I belong to both of you until my father pays my ransom, and it wouldn’t do for a slave to favour one co-owner over the other. I’ve shown you a little of my gratitude – why shouldn’t I show a bit to Daniel? I can see he’s eager.”
The final words were spoken after running my fingers negligently over the front of Dashing Daniel’s breeches. If he hadn’t been eager before, he was now. Taking his hand, I hurried him down into the cabin before Carp-eye had collected his wits. The door closed behind us and I raised my lips to Daniel’s.
“Me ears is me sensitive part,” he whispered.
Attempting to ignore the accumulation of wax, I placed my tongue in his ear and soon had him yelping in delight. Unlacing his breeches, I discovered an unexpected texture beneath. Glancing down, I saw that – under his manly outerwear – he wore a pair of ladies’ briefs in peach coloured satin, inset with lace panels. Also visible were matching suspenders and the tops of a pair of stockings.
“What have we here?” I asked roguishly.
His only reply was to giggle like a girl. Deftly, and with a certain curiosity, I stripped away his masculine outer garments. Apart from the things I’d already observed, he also wore a camisole. Its satin and lace matched the briefs and suspender belt.
“What a pretty little girl!” I exclaimed with more heartiness than sincerity. “By, but you’re in for a rogering and a half, you little whore!”
Seizing him roughly, I slapped Daniel’s buttocks to his evident delight. In almost the same movement, I threw the pollygogger to the floor and mounted him. He ejaculated within seconds. All was going according to plan, or perhaps a little better.
Yawning, I rose from him, a late dribble of semen besmirching the glossy perfection of his briefs. Without further remark, I ascended the cabin steps to join Carp-eye. He glowered at me, but said nothing. When a fully clothed Dashing Daniel emerged, perhaps ten minutes later, the animosity between the two men was almost palpable – things were shaping up even better than my plan.
I wondered how the pollygoggers would react if they knew my purpose. With violence, almost certainly – although, even if they had to change their arrangements, I was surely too valuable a piece of cargo to be killed. Clearly, neither man suspected, and I was reminded of two happy slave children skipping into a pecker butcher’s shop. Contemplating vengeance, I could see the justice of the Surrey maxim that revenge is like glana , best eaten on a bed of ice.[10]
In silence, the pollygoggers packed their valuables – obviously loath to leave them on an unguarded boat – and each unwilling to trust them with the other man. They struggled, heavily laden, up the rotting steps. On the embankment, they fastened their bundles to a mule tethered outside Esset’s premises. I waited on the boat until the beast was fully laden, stretching myself lazily and smiling with indulgence.
When I finally ascended the precarious stairway, its planks felt spongy under my feet. The embankment was, if anything, less prepossessing than it had been seven years before. The mean huts of the poor and tumbledown warehouses were more ruinous than I recalled. The air was heavy with urine and excrement, mingled with the stench of whatever they burnt on their fires.
Carp-eye untethered the mule and we stepped forward without exchanging another word. Climbing up from the river, the streets grew increasingly familiar. We passed counting houses, brothels and the Central Slave Market on the corner of Floral and Bow Streets. Here were the respectable modest homes of the middle classes – such folk as physicians, slave market tally clerks and tutors to the children of the great. Beyond, I could already see the towers of the Palace Victoria.
The palace looked simultaneously strange and commonplace. It was almost as though I had never been away. In a sense, Princess Margaret had scarcely left. Tuerqui was another matter – I wondered what was to become of the poor dispossessed slave.
A strange elfin girl, probably in her late teens, regarded us with an enigmatic expression. Her light brown hair was cut short and stood in a series of short spikes. She was wrapped in a long dark cloak. In a blink, the apparition had gone, and I was left uncertain as to her objective reality.
The buildings on either hand were brick – the original red all but invisible under layers of soot. My toes squelched in a muddy patch where the paving stones were missing. Somewhere behind us a street vendor shouted – but too incoherently to guess what he was selling. From our right, the tempting smell of spiced stew wafted from an inexpensive eatery.
[1]Whether the pollygoggers’ cargo was – strictly speaking – of maidens is open to doubt. Clearly, Tuerqui was not a maiden. The idea of rescuing maidens in distress was traditional, and found in many fairy tales.
[2]In fact, Lundin of this era seems to have had a high crime rate, including crimes of violence. The lawlessness was not checked until the city was placed under imperial control after the Fourth Battle of Lundin. In early imperial times, a force of Protection and Enforcement Troopers dealt swiftly and efficiently with criminals.
[3]Tipping guards was an accepted practice in Lundin under the Sixth Condominium. In Surrey, it was then (as now) considered corrupt – usually punished with a whipping.
[4]Cigarette: A paper tube filled with dried weed. One end was ignited, and smoke inhaled from the other. This practice, known as smoking, was much in vogue during the Old Time, but has ever been banned in genuinely civilised communities. Lundin was the chief centre of smoking at this time and remained so until the city was placed under imperial control. Lady Jane Daventry, visiting Lundin in YD 730, described it as a great smoke hole. It has been suggested that smoking had a narcotic effect.
[5]This was probably dacking – a fighting technique that made use of pressure points. It may be significant that dacking was employed by the Order of Tiverton – Westland warriors belonging to the Mun religion. (See Chapter 26, note 3.)
[6]X double bar mark: While licensed slavers had their own slave marks, it was possible for unlicensed slavers to apply an X mark to a slave. A citizen of Surrey used a plain X mark, foreign states or important nobles used an X plus a bar, foreign individuals used an X plus a double bar. In place of a slave number, slaves under an X mark bore the date of enslavement expressed in six digits, placing the year first and the day on the month last. X mark slaves needed to be properly registered with six weeks of the date marked. There were complex regulations covering this, and – in breech of these – the unlicensed slaver could be enslaved. The practice was not very common, and curtailed entirely under the Statute of Slavery Protection. During the whole of YD 731 only twelve X mark slaves were registered, of whom the former Juliet Justice was the last, bearing the number 311027 and the name Juici. She was, indeed, the last X mark slave ever registered. Triumvirate slave records show her as being registered by WE – Lundin. In the column for the amount paid, is: to sp. a/c, presumably indicating that the purchase was covered by a special account. The transaction has not been traced in the surviving Triumvirate ledgers
[7]Susan Blackwood: sometimes called the Berenice Blackheart of crime. She was a prominent figure in organised crime towards the end of the Surrey Democracy. It is clear that her criminal activities were ignored by the authorities because she also performed services for prominent persons (as here for Juliet Justice). In fact, she never faced criminal charges – receiving a full pardon in the first regnal year of Berenice I. Subsequently, Susan Blackwood, together with some of her former criminal associates, served in the imperial secret service.
[8]The Statute of Outlawry had been enacted over two centuries before, in YD 524. It outlawed persons specified as enemies of Lundin – including, as stated, the Nine of Surrey and all Surrey empers.
[9]Bill of absolution and letter of marque: The letter of marque was a commission to seize slaves or other property, as an act of war. Under a letter of marque, lawless acts in the territories of Surrey were given the full authority of the Sixth Condominium of Lundin and associated kingdoms (including Essex and Westland). Holding such a document would have ensured that the pollygoggers could live anywhere the letter was recognised without risk of extradition for any act committed in any Surrey territory while the letter was in force. (Should peace be made, the treaty would have absolved acts committed under letters of marque.) As such, it might represent a guarantee of peaceful retirement – at least until imperial victories (with no peace treaty) rendered it worthless.
The bill of absolution was a retrospective document – indemnifying the pollygoggers for past activities in seizing Surrey slaves. Such papers covered not only taking slaves in Surrey territories, but also disposing of them in Lundin. In effect, the stolen slaves would become the pollygoggers’ rightful property – retrospectively under the bill of absolution, and in the future under the letter of marque.
[10]Glana: the most expensive of pecker cuts. It was usually thinly sliced and served chilled.
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By dawn’s early light, everything looked grey – the mist, the water, the river bank reeds, even Dashing Daniel’s hat hanging from the stumpy mast. In contrast was the joyful cacophony of a myriad unseen birds. The gunwale felt smooth under my fingers, polished – I imagined – by the passage of many feet. The hold smelt of yesterday’s sweat – the girls had been too tired to wash the night before.
Nobody else seemed to be awake. Several of the girls were snoring softly. The noise of my chain, as I moved slightly, didn’t seem to disturb them. For all of that, I tried to remain as still as possible.
For what seemed a long time, I gazed toward the other bank where a water vole had its burrow. The mist was beginning to lift and colours started to resolve themselves. The reed stalks were straw coloured, the mud a dark brown, the voles’ fur a shade somewhere in between. The hedge was a dull green, the field beyond several shades lighter.
Carp-eye Smith’s voice cut into my reverie: “Come on ladies! Rise and shine! We’ll be at journey’s end before lunch!”
Waiting for him to unlock my tether, I prayed – fingering the little goddess. It occurred to me for the first time that the pollygoggers hadn’t damaged my beautiful harness. In view of the sapphires, it was an odd omission – presumably they hadn’t recognised the gems for what they were. The circumstance seemed a good omen, perhaps a sign from the goddess that I would ultimately be delivered.
At breakfast, the bread was hard and the bitty ale entirely flat. Juicelle’s complaints were audible through the open cabin door. Like my fellow towing slaves, I ignored her – eating and drinking what was provided. Finishing the meal, I realised that Juicelle had moved on to another topic.
“…well beyond the danger zone here…” She sounded exasperated. “It’s past time you gave them back to me.”
“I don’t reckon it that way,” Carp-eye replied. “Even here we might happen on a patrol. Best you stick to slave gear.”
“I insist upon the return of my clothes.”
“An’ I insist as we leaves it until we moor in Lundin. It’ll be but a few hours now.”
“You listen here, mister – and listen good…”
The dialogue was interrupted by Dashing Daniel, approaching from downstream: “Lock keeper says as to wait. Not full tide yet. We got plenty o’ time, anyways, might as well go with the flow.”
“How long till the tide turns?” Carp-eye asked, his back turned to Juicelle.
“Hour, hour an’ a half tops.”
“Yeah, we’ll wait in that case. We don’t want our cargo looking too worn out, haulin’ against the tide. Their families are like to ask for a discount if they turns up too sweaty.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Well – first time for everything. You never know. I wouldn’t put it past Bill Esset to try an’ knock us down, anyways. Mean bugger!”
“Ain’t he just! I gotta admit you’ve a point, there, broster.”
In the background, Juicelle continued to air her grievances. Neither pollygogger responded to the complaints. Also doing my best to ignore her, I chatted to my fellow towing slaves. It was a surprise to discover that I wasn’t the only one to prefer slavery to a family reunion.
“My lot are right miserable buggers,” Minqusi said.
“They can’t be much worse than mine. And like as not, they’ll still want me to marry that bloody Bert Laurence,” Fondlibelle said. “I’d rather be back with me mistress.”
“Me, too,” said Pritti, “she was nice. You don’t realise at the time, do you? Not until some interfering dipshit of a pollygogger grabs you. She used to say to me – you were so well named, you pretty slave.”
“It’s funny you should say that because mine used to like to fondle my…”
Then, just as the conversation was taking a particularly interesting turn, Dashing Daniel started to bark orders, and we hastened to obey. I never learnt what part of her body the mistress liked to fondle, but knew which I’d have chosen. Had Fondlibelle been immediately in front or behind me on the line, I would have asked. Unfortunately, four girls hauled between us.
A quarter of an hour later, we towed the boat from the lock and were on our way. The ground was soft enough to be easy on my feet, but not so muddy as to bog me down. The boat moved more easily than on the previous day, probably because the tide assisted us to pull. The main difficulty was in preventing the vessel from drifting out into midstream, and I wondered what would happen if we let go of the towing line.
Long before noon, and making good speed, we passed the first ruinous shanties of outer Lundin. The squalid region seemed not to have changed since I’d last seen it. Rats scuttled through rubbish heaps, sometimes pursued by lean dogs. Ragged children pelted one another with filth – Carp-eye levelled a small crossbow in their direction.
“The first one to mess me boat – or the tow line slaves – is dead,” he called – his voice matter-of-fact, rather than angry.
The urchins seemed to believe him, within moments they were gone. A cart drawn by trimmed he-slaves brought a fresh load of rubbish. Circling gulls descended as its contents were tipped. Human scavengers appeared – it was impossible to tell whence they came.
As ever, a fog bank enfolded the West Minester marshes. With the gloom closing upon me, I shuddered – in spite of the company of my fellow slaves, this place was still frightening. Glancing nervously at the wraiths of swirling mist, I saw the vague outline of something bulky. It occurred to me that it might be the rock on which Jenna had initiated our first game of mistress and slave.
At last we reached the remains of the Old Time bridge at the end of Well In Ten’s Street. Carp-eye shouted that we were to stop pulling, and hold the boat steady. Checking the forward motion required considerably more effort than allowing it to continue – I dug my heels into the mud. Dashing Daniel dropped the tiller to fasten the aft line to a buoy.
A few yards downstream I could see the Pier Victoria and the end of the processional route. Captain Major Flight’s ill-fated expedition came to mind. The place where his man o’ war had been berthed was occupied by a cargo boat from which cheeses, sides of bacon and other farm produce were unloaded. Since the pier had never been for private use, presumably the food was destined for my father’s palace.
The pier guards seemed twitchy. Two or three levelled crossbows in our direction. Another scurried into the guardhouse. A couple of minutes later the captain emerged, adjusting his helmet strap – the bedragglement of the plume suggesting that it had been carelessly tossed aside.
The officer raised a megaphone to his lips. A stiff westerly breeze was rolling rain clouds in our direction – and blowing sounds, loud or soft, downstream. His unaided voice would have been lost. The amplification was barely sufficient for me to discern his words.
“Hoi!” he hailed us. “Who goes there? What’s your business?”
“Stand down, we’re friends,” Dashing Daniel replied, having secured the bow line and cupping hands to his cheeks. “Just a boat of harmless pollygoggers with a cargo of rescued maidens[1].”
“We’ll have to check.”
Five minutes later, a sergeant and a couple of guardsmen appeared. They thudded down a set of rotting steps. The structure didn’t look strong enough to withstand such violence, but it held. The decay must have been more superficial than it appeared.
Poking into every cranny of the boat, the soldiers made a thorough search. Escorting them with a set of keys, Dashing Daniel opened several lockers. Juicelle remained quiet. Evidently, the only thing they found fit to query was Carp-eye’s small crossbow.
“What’s that for?” the sergeant asked. “This is a peaceable city – an’ we intend ter keep it that way.”
One of the guards chuckled. My impression was that he didn’t consider Lundin very peaceable[2]. His superior gave him a withering glare. The laughter died almost before it had begun.
“Just for personal protection,” Carp-eye assured the sergeant. “Not for Lundin, o’ course. But only a fool would go into Surrey unarmed.”
“True, very true. I can’t fault you on that. Just mind yer keep it fer Surrey, eh? Now, at about this point, most gennelmen in your position…”
There was no need to complete the sentence. Carp-eye reached into a pouch and handed over a few coins. The sergeant weighed them judiciously in his palm and, evidently deciding that the tip[3] was insufficient, frowned. For a minute or two there was an uneasy silence.
Then Carp-eye added three or four extra coins. Again, the sergeant weighed them in his palm. This time a smile creased his features. The guards ascended the steps, their upward progress less heavy footed than had been the descent.
Dashing Daniel followed the guards. Craning my neck, I saw the soldiers turn right, towards the Pier Victoria. The pollygogger turned left into what looked to be a half-derelict warehouse. There was a sign over the door with flaking black lettering on what had once been a white or cream ground – it read Wm. Esset Head Broker and De…, the rest was entirely illegible.
The rogue was selling his cargo, albeit by private treaty rather than public auction. My anger with the pollygoggers was now joined by a burning hatred toward the head broker. At least my captors had taken the risk of seizing slaves from Surrey. When Esset re-sold slaves to their families – or whomever – his profit in crime was clearly won with little hazard.
In view of the undertaking to the sergeant, I assumed that we’d seen the last of the small crossbow. Turning my eyes from the door through which Dashing Daniel had vanished, I was surprised to see that Carp-eye was pointing the weapon at we towing line slaves. The string was drawn back, ready for use. He levelled it at no one in particular, but succeeded in threatening all.
“Well, ladies,” he said, the wind blowing the words in our direction, “we’re home an’ safe out o’ Surrey – but there’s no call for any of you to be runnin’ off to yer folks straight away. You’ll be able do that all in good time. First, there needs to be a spot o’ profit for me an’ Dashin’ Daniel – an’ maybe for Bill Esset, the head broker, too. Meanwhiles, it’d be a real shame if me crossbow went off be accident, an’ someone got hurt.”
Juicelle’s strident voice rose from the stern: “Mr Smith, I have no objection to you – or anyone else – making a fair profit, but I demand my clothes. There’s no earthly reason for withholding them a minute longer. Give them to me!”
“Well I dunno about that,” he said, turning the crossbow in her general direction. “Me an’ Dashin’ Daniel have had second thoughts about you. I don’t think you’ll need your clothes, after all.”
There followed a stream of invective which doesn’t merit the dignity of writing. Juicelle accused the pollygoggers of abominations of which they were certainly guiltless. Some were physically impossible – or, at least, I hope so. Several of the towing line slaves tried to stop their ears, Carp-eye listened impassively.
“There may be a lot of justice in what you say,” he said when Juicelle paused – possibly for breath, or to devise fresh oaths. “But we’ve got to think of our profits – you’ve paid us once, which good, I’ll grant you. On the other hand, if we take your money pouches, we’ll be paid twice, which is even better to my way of thinkin’. Best of all, maybe, would be sellin’ your carcass to Bill Esset, an’ bein’ paid three times.”
Juicelle produced a further torrent of language that Madame Scurf wouldn’t have tolerated from the mouths of her whores. She did not, however, attempt to advance on the crossbow. Carp-eye gave the impression that he would shoot, if need be. The towing line slaves sought the safety of the hold.
Following my companions into their refuge, the Pier Victoria caught my eye. The sergeant and his guards were looking our way. It occurred to me that they might intervene against Carp-eye’s possibly murderous intent. Looking more carefully, I realised that they were laughing – although the sound was lost on the breeze.
Turning my gaze back to the steps, I saw that Dashing Daniel was returning, accompanied by – a step or two behind – a fat man looking to be in his fifties, presumably the wretch, Esset. He was almost bald, such hair as he retained plastered with grease. A large gold ring pierced one ear lobe. His suit was of a violent green and yellow check, smeared with what were probably bodily secretions and flecked with ash from a cigarette[4] that dangled at his lip.
“There she is!” Dashing Daniel exclaimed, pointing to Juicelle. “Must be worth a fortune – Juliet Justice on the run from the Triumvirate, an’ disguised as a slave. How much d’you reckon they’d pay for her?”
“Maybe, maybe,” Esset said, coughing but not removing his cigarette. “All the same, tradin’ into Surrey is easier said than done. I’m not sure as ’ow I wants the trouble. In any case, ’ow am I ter know she really is what y’ say.”
“We got papers an’ everythin’. It’s all sewn up.”
“I’ll sew you – you…” Juicelle shrieked, before launching into a further series of lurid curses.
“Yeah, all right,” Esset conceded, “with language like that, I reckon she’s what you say she is.”
Dashing Daniel was approaching the foot of the steps, almost within Juliet Justice’s grasp. She leapt forward – possibly intent upon escape, possibly to attack. The pollygogger extended a hand to her neck and, a moment later, she lay crumpled at his feet. For a moment I thought that he’d strangled her, before reflecting that his hand had surely not been at her throat for sufficiently long – in any case he was unlikely to kill so valuable a prize.[5]
Taking two lengths of cord from his pocket, he moved swiftly to bind her wrists and ankles. The knots looked every bit as tight and secure as mine had been two days before. Esset took from his jacket pocket what, at first, I took to be a cigarette case. When he opened the hinged lid and removed a small object, it was obviously nothing to smoke – but I couldn’t, at first, identify it.
“Well,” Esset announced, “if she’s to be sold back into Surrey, it’d best be as a slave – you don’t sell persons. Let’s make it legal with an X double bar mark.[6]”
It was then that I recognised the object in his hand as a miniature tattooing needle. When the instrument touched Juliet Justice’s thigh, she moaned softly, then, as the point sank in, awoke with a shriek. Dashing Daniel held her still, while the head broker completed his work. The job done, the two men stood back from her, while she struggled uselessly with her bonds, shouting incoherently.
“If you’ll jus’ pipe down,” Dashing Daniel said quietly when she paused for breath, “I’ll let you know where you stand.”
There was silence. Juliet Justice opened and closed her mouth noiselessly, like a fish. Dashing Daniel flexed his wrists, as though grasping an imaginary whip. We tow slaves stood in the hold and stared.
“Good, maybe you’re learning to hold your tongue – that’ll be a useful lesson,” the pollygogger said. “You asked Susan Blackwood[7] to arrange a passage to Lundin, thinking that the enemies of your enemies would be your friends. That’s if you thought at all.”
“You…”
“Ah! Hold your tongue now – I have the whip hand – literally.”
Lifting a hinged seat to port of the tiller, he withdrew a length of plaited leather. It was no torment instrument, but obviously useful enough. He ran it over her shoulders, no more than a tickling motion. Juliet shuddered.
“Did you not think of the Statute of Outlawry[8] – which makes every emper, an’ especially the Nine o’ Surrey, an outlaw in Lundin? You have no legal rights here. None at all.”
“But there is no longer a Nine – it’s been abolished. How can I be outlawed?”
“An interesting legal point.” He cracked the whip hard across her back – she screamed as though she’d never been whipped before. “But I’m not sure how you’re goin’ to test it in court. As I say, I have the whip hand.”
After he had delivered several more lashes, each harder than the one before, Juliet turned her tear-streaked face towards us. We laughed – the mockery of slaves must have delivered an added, bitter, blow. Her face screwed up like a discarded paper. Abruptly, the laughter died in my throat – she and I were victims of the same pollygoggers, sisters on two sides of one villainy.
Without a thought, I started toward the stern. Carp-eye’s crossbow levelled on me, to drop as he saw that I wasn’t attempting to jump to the bank. Daniel and Esset looked puzzled, but made no move to stop me. I took Juliet in my arms, rocking, comforting, as I would have done Tuerquelle – or, indeed, any fellow slave in distress.
Juliet wept on my breast for what seemed a long time. She felt warm and solid – like any healthy slave, or person. I wondered at the hostility I’d born her not long before. My tender, chaste, kisses fell upon her brow.
“Come on, now,” a soft voice said at last, “time for your friend to go.”
Glancing up, I saw that Carp-eye had spoken. Only he, Juliet and I remained – all of the others had gone. He was smiling – the most pleasant expression I’d seen him adopt. It seemed to me that he was glad that someone had shown some kindness to the luckless woman.
Reluctantly, I disentangled myself from the still sobbing Juliet. Carp-eye ran what was probably my tethering chain of the previous night from my left ankle to a stout ring set into the deck. As he was completing this action, his eyes focused upon me with sudden interest. Until he spoke again, I thought that his attention was fixed upon my breasts.
“Funny I hadn’t noticed before,” he said, “but them’s nice stones on yer harness.”
“Glass,” I lied, “a copper or two apiece. What do you expect – real sapphires on a slave?”
“O’ course not – don’t talk soft – an’ I can tell real from fake as well as anyone. I jus’ meant as they was nice for blue glass slave ornaments. More than a copper or two apiece, I’d say, maybe a couple o’ bob.”
“But not a fortune.”
“No – not a fortune, but you’re worth better than a fortune. You’re our ticket for a bill of absolution and a letter of marque[9]. An’ that’s why you’re to wait on the boat for now, in a bit we’ll take you to yer daddy – personal. Bill Esset’s having all the others, but he ain’t havin’ you – no way!”
Carp-eye picked Juliet from the deck as though she were a sack of turnips. He tossed her over his broad shoulder, seemingly without effort. Laden with his breathing cargo, he stepped from the boat. Juliet turned her moist eyes toward me.
“Thank you, Tuerqui,” she said. “You didn’t have to comfort me – but you did. I think you’re the first real friend I’ve ever had. I shan’t forget you.”
“Goodbye,” I replied. “I wish you a good life as a slave. It’ll maybe turn out better than you expect. All of my real friends have been made since I was enslaved.”
As I said the words, I realised that they were true. In personage, those I had considered my friends – one way or another – had turned out not to be. Jenna was the supreme example. As a slave, my ownership of nothing ensured that friendships were genuine.
By the time I framed this thought, Carp-eye was on the bottom step. Unable to think of anything further to say to Juliet, I watched in silence until she vanished through Esset’s door. When she had gone, I indulged in a few tears of my own. In spite of that token of vulnerability, a plan of revenge was rising unbidden within me – driving before it my recent gentleness.
By the time Carp-eye returned to unlock my tethering chain, the vengeance scheme was fully formed. I had seen where the pollygoggers were weakest – at my mercy. On perceiving the trap I was about to lay, they would be already enmeshed. My lips twitched into an invitation – radiant, but filled with guile.
“You were glad that I was nice to Juliet, weren’t you, Carp-eye?”
“Yeah – I was. What of it?”
“I don’t know. I suppose your being pleased showed that you had a softer side. And I wanted to say that I was sorry. Truly I am.”
“Sorry for what?”
“I’m sorry to have been such a trouble. I’ve come to my senses. Maybe it was what happened to Juliet that showed me the reality of slavery and personage. Anyway, I’m grateful – and I’d like to show you just how grateful I am.”
“Well – in that case – you can be good, an’ not kick up no trouble on the way to yer daddy’s palace.”
He unlocked my tethering chain. Stretching myself languidly, seductively, I ensured that my body was displayed to good advantage. Carp-eye looked doubtful. I pouted.
“I’ll do that, of course. But there are better ways for a girl to show her gratitude.”
My fingers brushed expertly across his flies. It was a long time since I’d practised the skills learnt at the Laughing Phallus, but they returned to me without effort. Instantly, I felt his penis stiffen. The success gave me an unexpected sense of professional pride.
“Come on,” I whispered, “we’ll be more private in the cabin.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then was lost. I knew enough to have any penis jumping through the hoop – whoredom had been the only real profession I’d ever followed. He clattered after me, down the steps into the cabin. I turned toward him, tongue rolling lasciviously over my upper lip.
His arms encircled me and our lips met. My tongue touched his. Reaching down, I teased his penis, increasing its excitement without immediate risk of ejaculation. I regarded the process in the detached manner adopted in the Laughing Phallus – easy, in spite of his member revolting me.
We sank to the floor, me on top. I unfastened his fly, reaching into his filthy undergarment. Pausing only to finger myself to ensure lubrication, I slipped his penis inside me. Moments later, he spurted.
The business had proved less unpleasant than I’d expected. Although I took no pleasure in him as such, there was an unanticipated element of arousal in contemplating my revenge – the link between sex and power, most certainly. There may even have been a slight disappointment that he’d lasted no longer, but if so, it was my fault – with my skills, he could have continued for half an hour, had I so chosen. It felt good in itself to be that much in control – our battle raging on the field of my choice.
“Come on,” I chided, “do yourself up before Daniel comes back.”
As I rose from him, his now flaccid penis slipped out. He struggled to his feet, obviously agitated by strong emotion. I fastened his fly – he was shaking too much to shift for himself. My impression was of this being his first experience of sexual congress in a long time.
“That was lovely,” he whispered. “Thank you. I never expected…”
“Oh, never mind what you expected. We’d better go back up on deck and wait for Daniel.”
Dashing Daniel was already descending the steps, an evidently heavy bag in his arms. Suspiciously, he glanced at us. With studied nonchalance, I tidied my hair, deliberately increasing his suspicion through a seeming attempt to allay it. By the time he clambered aboard, Daniel had obviously reached his conclusions.
“What were you two doing down there?” he asked – more of an accusation than a question – and with a double meaning in the last two words.
“Come on down, and I’ll show you,” I purred.
“Now wait a minute…” Carp-eye broke in, hurt showing in his eyes.
“Now now, Carp-eye,” I reproved, “there’s no call for you to be jealous. Surely, I belong to both of you until my father pays my ransom, and it wouldn’t do for a slave to favour one co-owner over the other. I’ve shown you a little of my gratitude – why shouldn’t I show a bit to Daniel? I can see he’s eager.”
The final words were spoken after running my fingers negligently over the front of Dashing Daniel’s breeches. If he hadn’t been eager before, he was now. Taking his hand, I hurried him down into the cabin before Carp-eye had collected his wits. The door closed behind us and I raised my lips to Daniel’s.
“Me ears is me sensitive part,” he whispered.
Attempting to ignore the accumulation of wax, I placed my tongue in his ear and soon had him yelping in delight. Unlacing his breeches, I discovered an unexpected texture beneath. Glancing down, I saw that – under his manly outerwear – he wore a pair of ladies’ briefs in peach coloured satin, inset with lace panels. Also visible were matching suspenders and the tops of a pair of stockings.
“What have we here?” I asked roguishly.
His only reply was to giggle like a girl. Deftly, and with a certain curiosity, I stripped away his masculine outer garments. Apart from the things I’d already observed, he also wore a camisole. Its satin and lace matched the briefs and suspender belt.
“What a pretty little girl!” I exclaimed with more heartiness than sincerity. “By, but you’re in for a rogering and a half, you little whore!”
Seizing him roughly, I slapped Daniel’s buttocks to his evident delight. In almost the same movement, I threw the pollygogger to the floor and mounted him. He ejaculated within seconds. All was going according to plan, or perhaps a little better.
Yawning, I rose from him, a late dribble of semen besmirching the glossy perfection of his briefs. Without further remark, I ascended the cabin steps to join Carp-eye. He glowered at me, but said nothing. When a fully clothed Dashing Daniel emerged, perhaps ten minutes later, the animosity between the two men was almost palpable – things were shaping up even better than my plan.
I wondered how the pollygoggers would react if they knew my purpose. With violence, almost certainly – although, even if they had to change their arrangements, I was surely too valuable a piece of cargo to be killed. Clearly, neither man suspected, and I was reminded of two happy slave children skipping into a pecker butcher’s shop. Contemplating vengeance, I could see the justice of the Surrey maxim that revenge is like glana , best eaten on a bed of ice.[10]
In silence, the pollygoggers packed their valuables – obviously loath to leave them on an unguarded boat – and each unwilling to trust them with the other man. They struggled, heavily laden, up the rotting steps. On the embankment, they fastened their bundles to a mule tethered outside Esset’s premises. I waited on the boat until the beast was fully laden, stretching myself lazily and smiling with indulgence.
When I finally ascended the precarious stairway, its planks felt spongy under my feet. The embankment was, if anything, less prepossessing than it had been seven years before. The mean huts of the poor and tumbledown warehouses were more ruinous than I recalled. The air was heavy with urine and excrement, mingled with the stench of whatever they burnt on their fires.
Carp-eye untethered the mule and we stepped forward without exchanging another word. Climbing up from the river, the streets grew increasingly familiar. We passed counting houses, brothels and the Central Slave Market on the corner of Floral and Bow Streets. Here were the respectable modest homes of the middle classes – such folk as physicians, slave market tally clerks and tutors to the children of the great. Beyond, I could already see the towers of the Palace Victoria.
The palace looked simultaneously strange and commonplace. It was almost as though I had never been away. In a sense, Princess Margaret had scarcely left. Tuerqui was another matter – I wondered what was to become of the poor dispossessed slave.
A strange elfin girl, probably in her late teens, regarded us with an enigmatic expression. Her light brown hair was cut short and stood in a series of short spikes. She was wrapped in a long dark cloak. In a blink, the apparition had gone, and I was left uncertain as to her objective reality.
The buildings on either hand were brick – the original red all but invisible under layers of soot. My toes squelched in a muddy patch where the paving stones were missing. Somewhere behind us a street vendor shouted – but too incoherently to guess what he was selling. From our right, the tempting smell of spiced stew wafted from an inexpensive eatery.
[1]Whether the pollygoggers’ cargo was – strictly speaking – of maidens is open to doubt. Clearly, Tuerqui was not a maiden. The idea of rescuing maidens in distress was traditional, and found in many fairy tales.
[2]In fact, Lundin of this era seems to have had a high crime rate, including crimes of violence. The lawlessness was not checked until the city was placed under imperial control after the Fourth Battle of Lundin. In early imperial times, a force of Protection and Enforcement Troopers dealt swiftly and efficiently with criminals.
[3]Tipping guards was an accepted practice in Lundin under the Sixth Condominium. In Surrey, it was then (as now) considered corrupt – usually punished with a whipping.
[4]Cigarette: A paper tube filled with dried weed. One end was ignited, and smoke inhaled from the other. This practice, known as smoking, was much in vogue during the Old Time, but has ever been banned in genuinely civilised communities. Lundin was the chief centre of smoking at this time and remained so until the city was placed under imperial control. Lady Jane Daventry, visiting Lundin in YD 730, described it as a great smoke hole. It has been suggested that smoking had a narcotic effect.
[5]This was probably dacking – a fighting technique that made use of pressure points. It may be significant that dacking was employed by the Order of Tiverton – Westland warriors belonging to the Mun religion. (See Chapter 26, note 3.)
[6]X double bar mark: While licensed slavers had their own slave marks, it was possible for unlicensed slavers to apply an X mark to a slave. A citizen of Surrey used a plain X mark, foreign states or important nobles used an X plus a bar, foreign individuals used an X plus a double bar. In place of a slave number, slaves under an X mark bore the date of enslavement expressed in six digits, placing the year first and the day on the month last. X mark slaves needed to be properly registered with six weeks of the date marked. There were complex regulations covering this, and – in breech of these – the unlicensed slaver could be enslaved. The practice was not very common, and curtailed entirely under the Statute of Slavery Protection. During the whole of YD 731 only twelve X mark slaves were registered, of whom the former Juliet Justice was the last, bearing the number 311027 and the name Juici. She was, indeed, the last X mark slave ever registered. Triumvirate slave records show her as being registered by WE – Lundin. In the column for the amount paid, is: to sp. a/c, presumably indicating that the purchase was covered by a special account. The transaction has not been traced in the surviving Triumvirate ledgers
[7]Susan Blackwood: sometimes called the Berenice Blackheart of crime. She was a prominent figure in organised crime towards the end of the Surrey Democracy. It is clear that her criminal activities were ignored by the authorities because she also performed services for prominent persons (as here for Juliet Justice). In fact, she never faced criminal charges – receiving a full pardon in the first regnal year of Berenice I. Subsequently, Susan Blackwood, together with some of her former criminal associates, served in the imperial secret service.
[8]The Statute of Outlawry had been enacted over two centuries before, in YD 524. It outlawed persons specified as enemies of Lundin – including, as stated, the Nine of Surrey and all Surrey empers.
[9]Bill of absolution and letter of marque: The letter of marque was a commission to seize slaves or other property, as an act of war. Under a letter of marque, lawless acts in the territories of Surrey were given the full authority of the Sixth Condominium of Lundin and associated kingdoms (including Essex and Westland). Holding such a document would have ensured that the pollygoggers could live anywhere the letter was recognised without risk of extradition for any act committed in any Surrey territory while the letter was in force. (Should peace be made, the treaty would have absolved acts committed under letters of marque.) As such, it might represent a guarantee of peaceful retirement – at least until imperial victories (with no peace treaty) rendered it worthless.
The bill of absolution was a retrospective document – indemnifying the pollygoggers for past activities in seizing Surrey slaves. Such papers covered not only taking slaves in Surrey territories, but also disposing of them in Lundin. In effect, the stolen slaves would become the pollygoggers’ rightful property – retrospectively under the bill of absolution, and in the future under the letter of marque.
[10]Glana: the most expensive of pecker cuts. It was usually thinly sliced and served chilled.
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