SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows) (27 page)

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 this 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.

He moved quietly, careful not to make any noise that would disturb those still sleeping at
Senna MaGlen’s household, as he slipped down the area steps and through the scullery door. He was later than usual and would have to hurry to be out of the way by the time the housekeeper and her staff started their day.

A few more stairs down, and he was in the boiler room where
his landlady provided one of the greatest luxuries Michael had ever known: a bathtub.

A
richly-appointed bathing room adjoined his suite at the Red Boar, but it wasn’t the same. He could wash there for hours and never feel clean. It cost him a bit more every moon to pay for the nightly use he made of it, but Michael never begrudged Senna MaGlen the money. Without this bathtub, he believed he might have gone mad. It allowed him to become himself again, literally and figuratively washing away the whore he became in order to endure his long hours of nightmarish slavery.

He pulled off his clothes and let them fall to the floor though he frowned at the thin spots wearing at the elbows of his elegant white shirt.
He kept a spare white shirt and pair of knickers for when he had to wash his everyday clothes—he had rather more clothes than most people, including an older, very worn pair of trousers he used for chalk-drawing days along with his old, much more ordinary boots—but now his “best” shirt would need mending or replacing.

More expenses.
He despaired of ever saving enough money, and he sighed as he turned the lever on the boiler, releasing a cascade of hot water and great clouds of steam.

The tub was small but deep, and h
e let it fill up more than half-way before he turned off the flow of hot water and began pumping the cold water to balance the temperature. He climbed in when he’d cooled it just enough to not be dangerously hot and let himself sink beneath the surface.

I could stay here
, he thought idly and not for the first time.
Never come up for air. Stay under forever. No more expenses. No more whoring. No more anything...

But he no longer believed that was a path he wanted to take.
The answer to
“If you want to survive...”
had once more become, “Yes.” He wanted to escape this life, but he did not want to die. Lorel Burk had taught him that.

He sat up in the tub and took a deep breath
.
I learned so much that night.
And what he’d been most certain of ever since was that he wanted more than anything to leave Fensgate and every last memory of it far, far behind him. Even his memories of Pol.

Lucky Pol, living the life we were all promised by JhaPel—an honorable apprenticeship in an honorable trade with an honorable future spread out before him
. Not to mention a wealthy and powerful uncle with no other heirs.

He shook his head, dismissing the time
-wasting thoughts, picked up the bar of strong soap Senna MaGlen provided and started scrubbing at himself. In this way, each morning, he washed away the feelings, the memories, and the faces of the men who never saw anything but a whore when they looked at him.

He hated them all, every
one of them, no matter how gentle or kind or generous they thought they’d been. He hated every man who’d looked at him without seeing
him
. Every man who’d chosen him to play out his little fantasies. Every man who’d ever undressed him or watched impatiently as he’d undressed for them.