The Traitor’s Mercy by Iris Foxglove

Chapter 6

The crown prince left with Charon, looking a bit dazed, and Laurent took a moment to make a note in his ledger book—luckily Charon had a sizeable amount of time in his schedule for Laurent to record Adrien’s visit, with the same name he’d given before.

“Are you angry,” Sabre asked, when Laurent turned to him.

“Should I be angry?” Laurent asked. He walked over and closed the door, locking it. “Are you planning on running off with the prince?” He doubted it, since it sounded like, somehow, Sabre was the one with the common sense between them.

Adrien, with his flights of fancy, was perhaps more like his father than anyone realized. Except, it seemed, for Sabre.

“I wouldn’t let him, even if I wanted to, which I, I don’t.” Sabre’s eyes were wide, and he swayed forward a bit on his knees.

Laurent said, “Do you want me to be angry? You won’t need it, pet, if you want me to put you in your place you can just ask me.”

“Oh,” Sabre whispered. “Do you want me to?”

“I would enjoy feeling as if I have some modicum of control in this situation, as elusive as it may be.” Laurent snapped his fingers. “Come here.”

Sabre blinked. He went to stand up, and Laurent said, “No.”

“But you want—”

“I want you,” Laurent said, in a hard voice, “to come here. Not like a noble, because you’re not one, anymore. Like a courtesan in training in my house. I said I’d put you in your place, and it’s my decision what that place is, so. Crawl.”

He didn’t miss what that did to Sabre, the flash of heat and embarrassment, the sweet burn of humiliation that Laurent was sure Sabre wanted even before his nobility was forcibly ripped away from him.

Sabre dragged in a harsh breath, then slid to his hands and knees—and crawled.

He was graceless, of course, with none of the style of the house’s other submissives but the desperate, aching want couldn’t be faked and it did go a bit soothing Laurent’s dominance, which was roused by his feeling completely out of control.

When Sabre knelt at his side at last, he reached down and grabbed him by the hair, pulling him bodily to his feet.

“I, my lord—”

“Don’t speak,” Laurent said, then shoved him against the closed door, leaned in and kissed him.

Sabre went still, but he kissed Laurent back, almost shyly. He was trembling, but Laurent could tell he was hard, and when Laurent pushed against him, Sabre groaned into his mouth and gasped softly.

Laurent reached down and palmed Sabre’s cock, squeezing it through his pants. “Do you want to come, pet?”

“If my lord wishes,” Sabre said, and ah, that was good.

Laurent sucked at his neck above his collar, biting down and leaving a mark. He gave Sabre’s cock another squeeze. “Your lord wants you to beg for it. I want to hear how much you want my hand on you.”

“Please, my lord, I do.”

“Use your words, pet.” Laurent pulled back, tipped Sabre’s chin up. “Your job is to do what you’re told.”

“I want your hand on me, please, my lord,” Sabre said. “I want to be good for you.”

“Should I frighten you, like Charon? I have no gun to put in your mouth, pretty thing. Will you still go under for me?”

“Ah,” Sabre said, looking down. “Yes. If you want me to, I will.”

“I want you to.” He deftly worked open Sabre’s pants, kept another hand wrapped in his still-damp hair. “They will take you, put you on your knees. Frighten you, make you come. Put you under like you want. You’ll be so good for them, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Sabre gasped, when Laurent got his hand around his cock.

“Yes, what?” Laurent pulled harder.

“Yes, my lord,” Sabre responded, his hips pushing.

“Stay still and take what I give you,” Laurent ordered. “Put your hands behind your back.” He moved back enough to let Sabre get his hands behind him, then kissed him again, rough and bruising. “And tell me, pet, tell me who you’ll belong to. Even when they give you what they want.”

He stroked Sabre’s cock with the perfect pressure, his technique as impeccably perfect as ever, even if he no longer did this for anyone unless he wanted to.

“Yours,” Sabre whispered. He dragged his lip between his teeth, trying hard not to move and thrust into Laurent’s hand. “Yours, my lord. Yours.”

“Good. That’s good. Don’t forget. The king put that collar on your neck but you belong to me, and I don’t care how good it will feel to kneel for anyone else, you won’t forget that.”

“I won’t, oh, my lord, I—” Sabre was almost in tears, just from this, being pinned against a wall and owned. “Please, please let me come, let me show you—”

“Go ahead,” Laurent allowed, and stroked him until Sabre came over his fist. He stroked him until the last tremor was wrung out of him, then shoved his fingers in Sabre’s gasping, wet mouth. “Clean them off like a good whore.”

Sabre did, moaning around his fingers while Laurent shoved them deep enough to make him choke.

“Do you want my cock, my pretty whore? Want to kneel, show me how grateful you are to be mine?” It’d been some time since Laurent felt his dominance this roused, reminding him of how it was after he was no longer in debt and forcing himself to be the submissive he wasn’t for his noble clients.

“Yes, I—take my mouth, please, my lord,” Sabre said, and the eagerness to please in his voice wasn’t what the nobles who hired him would want, maybe, but it was exactly what Laurent wanted.

Laurent shoved him to his knees, drew his cock out and held Sabre by his hair while he thrust hard into his mouth. He gave him his cock with sharp, deep thrusts, not going slow, thrilling as Sabre choked and shook there, on his knees before him. He was dangerously close in seconds, and this wasn’t just about training, it was about claiming, and he didn’t stop or slow.

“You’ll cry for me,” Laurent ordered, holding himself deep with his grip in Sabre’s hair. He kept it up, watched Sabre’s feet kick on the floor and noted with a hazy sense of satisfaction that Sabre’s hands were still clenched behind his back.

He wasn’t sure if it was the choking—an understandable fear given what had almost happened to him—or his dominance that had Sabre crying, but either way, it was putting Sabre under and satisfying Laurent’s urge to control him, so he didn’t much care either way.

“I will keep you safe, make sure you get what you need. Not the crown, not the prince, me,” he snarled, holding Sabre’s head back and baring his throat while he stroked himself off over Sabre’s lovely, upturned, tear-streaked face. “Thank me for it, whore.”

“Thank you,” Sabre moaned. “Thank you, thank you, my lord.”

Laurent’s own moan was loud as he came all over Sabre’s face, slumping forward in his release as the pleasure washed over him. When it ran its course, he blinked and saw Sabre’s messy face, the way he was breathing easier, his posture at long last perfect.

Laurent stroked a hand over Sabre’s hair while he drifted, under and quiet, and wondered for the first time if he was in trouble.

* * *

It was still rainingthe next morning, a light, dull rain that made the city beyond the windows seem hazy, and Sabre was serving tea. It wasn’t technically on his list of duties, but he’d learned quickly enough that half of the house tended to wake up at noon, grab what they could from the kitchen, and have a haphazard midday tea in Simone’s sitting room. Simone was one of the only ones to have more than a single room to herself, and her sitting room was stuffed full with chaises, footstools, curtains and cushions.

“I can’t believe you saw the prince and didn’t tell me,” Simone said, holding out her teacup for Sabre to refill. She was dressed in a cotton gown in the Gerakian style, all severe lines and a high waist, and her hair tumbled artfully over her shoulder, glittering with strings of colored glass.

“I was a little distracted,” Yves said. He grabbed the teapot before Sabre could reach him and poured himself a cup. As a courtesan in training, Sabre had been unanimously voted to serve the tea, but Yves kept forgetting. “He’s so hot, Simone. Like, what’s that story Percival told, about the guy who fell in love with his own statue? That kind of hot.”

“Oh, my,” Simone said, smiling into her cup. She glanced at Sabre. “Tell us, Sabre, is he right, or is he thinking with his moneybags again?”

Sabre took the teapot from Yves and put it back on the warmer. “I don’t know. He looks like his mother.”

“Poor thing,” Percival said, lying upside down on a chaise. His hair was in curlers, dropping slightly as he slid towards the floor. “Must be a shit job, being a prince when you look like the woman the king hated enough to execute himself.”

Sabre grimaced. “No one said he killed her.”

“They didn’t have to, love,” Simone said.

“Yeah, fuck.” Nanette, sitting at Simone’s feet, pulled a face. “That’s depressing. Let’s go back to the shit about Yves having a crush on the prince.”

“I’m just saying, I admire his whole...look,” Yves said. “Sabre, back me up, here. You two had to‘ve…you know. Don’t tell me you grew up next door to that and didn’t try once.”

“We kissed when we were eleven,” Sabre said, and Yves choked on his tea. Percival laughed. “He was terrible at it. So was I. We decided not to repeat the experience.”

“Are you mad? That’s what practice is for.” Yves sighed. “I told Ma I should’ve been born a noble. This proves it.”

Simone stretched out, laying her head in Yves’ lap. “Clearly. But that’s all right. He just has different tastes, our Sabre.”

Sabre startled, slightly, rattling the tray of cobbled-together breakfast leftovers. No one had called him our Sabre since before the execution. His mother used to say it, when she was feeling uncharacteristically soft, running her hands through his hair. Our Sabre.

“He seemed happy enough with Charon, anyways,” Nanette said. “Margritte saw him limping down the stairs. It was a good limp, though,” she added, glancing at Sabre.

“Didn’t see you after that little debacle,” Percival said. Sabre could feel the blush rising on his cheeks. He could still hear Laurent’s voice in the back of his mind, feel the heat of his gaze. The relief that washed over him when he yielded, on his knees with Laurent standing over him, hands in his hair.

“You didn’t see him because what’s-his-name was watching you fuck Gwydion with that glowing pink dick of yours,” Yves said.

Percival gave him a bored look. “It was the blue one, and they don’t glow, they glitter. Why buy your own if they aren’t going to be interesting?”

“Hey, mine’s interesting,” Yves said.

“Yes, precious, all four inches of it.”

“Sabre, hit him,” Yves said. He grabbed at one of Simone’s limitless supply of pillows. “You’re in training, so you have to listen to me.”

“Says who?” Percival asked. An edge of dominance crept into his voice. “Sabre, ignore him, he’s just a pampered sugar-baby with a god complex.”

“Not while I’m lying here!” Simone cried, as Yves threw a beaded pillow at Percival. “You beasts.”

“Children,” Nanette said, leaning over to grab the rest of the muffin on Percival’s plate.

“Are all of the houses like this?” Sabre asked, as Yves snarled, scrambling over to Percival like an irate housecat.

“Gods, no,” Nanette said. “The House of Iron would’ve never let us out of assigned spaces during off hours. Don’t want courtesans finding out if they’re being paid differently for servicing the same noble, right?”

“Or forbid you step outside without permission,” Simone said. “Lord de Rue is soft in that way.”

Nanette handed over a piece of Percival’s muffin. “Only you would call him soft.”

“Because he is. I worked here before it was the House of Onyx, you know.” Simone pushed a lamp out of the way as Yves pinned Percival down, reaching for his curlers. “He came in here dressed like a country noble with last season’s styles, bought out the House from under the old lord, and started rattling about like a hornet in a cup. Talking about tips and security measures and an open ledger. I was sure the other lords would eat him alive by now.”

Sabre searched Simone’s face. It was hard to believe that she was as old as she claimed to be—as old as Sabre’s mother, at least—with her carefully-applied face and elegant gowns. It was harder still to know what she was thinking, and when she cast Sabre a soft smile, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to smile back.

“Then he took you in out of the proverbial cold,” she said. “None of the other lords would have taken such pains to keep you alive. The nobles are restless, now. I’m sure the others have noticed.”

“My nobles are too distracted to be restless,” Yves said, from where Percival was sitting on his chest in apparent triumph. He didn’t seem all too put out by it.

“One of mine asked about it,” Nanette said. She glanced at Sabre. “Apparently, the king hinted that you wouldn’t have to be trained. Nobles aren’t really used to having to wait. No offense.”

Sabre shrugged. It was true. He had an army of servants at home—He hadn’t even thought of where they’d gone, after his house fell. Laurent would have thought of it, if he were in Sabre’s place. Sabre doubted Adrien even gave them a second thought. He had a bad habit of avoiding servants, since it made him uncomfortable to be waited on.

“I’m sure if Laurent had his way, you wouldn’t serve anyone at all,” Simone said, pouring herself a new cup of tea.

“But. I’ve served him, though,” Sabre said, carefully. “When I needed it.”

There was a short silence.

“Fuck,” Nanette said, and dug in her pants pocket for a crumpled bank note. She tossed it in Simone’s lap.

“I told you, like a stray puppy taken in out of the rain,” Simone said, smoothing out the note. She smiled at Sabre. “We had a bet, you see. How long before dear Lord Laurent gave in to those sad eyes of yours.”

“Who’s giving in to what, exactly?”

Sabre, who was already sitting on the floor next to Simone, sank down another inch as Laurent leaned against the doorway. He was beautiful in a white shirt with belled sleeves and black trousers that could have been stolen from Nanette, and when he looked at Sabre, Sabre tried to suppress a full-body shiver.

“Tea,” Simone said, smoothly. “Would you like some? Sabre’s serving. It’s good practice.”

“I had tea at the theater,” Laurent said. “Rose invited all of you to her production, by the way. She’ll be Maiden Number Three, in Act One.”

“That’s a step up from being a tree, though,” Percival said.

“Yeah, well done,” Nanette said. “Is she remembering to project from the diaphragm?”

“Constantly,” Laurent said. “Sabre, time to leave the layabouts behind and go to work.”

“Yes, my lord.” Sabre paused, unsure if he was expected to crawl this time, and Simone gave him an arch, knowing look that made his face heat like a flame. He stood.

He half expected to be on laundry duty again, but Laurent led him downstairs, to the common room where Gwydion was stitching feathers on a mask. A whole tray of them lay on a rolling table next to the couches, glittering with colored glass and wire. Gwydion waved without looking up, trailing strings on his free hand.

“You’ll be hosting tonight,” Laurent said, opening the gate to a protected, screened room where nobles were supposed to put on masks to hide their identities from other guests. “It’s simple enough. You greet them, mark them down in the ledger, and offer them a mask. Tea and coffee is served in the common room.”

Sabre looked down at the black ledger chained to the podium by the door. “Will I be masked?”

Laurent’s sigh was only just audible. “No.”

“Oh.”

“You haven’t had your first night, though,” Laurent said. “They won’t risk making enemies of the noble who’s claimed it, so they’ll have to try to get under your skin in other ways. It will give you an idea of what to expect.”

“I can’t…” Sabre ran a hand over the ledger. “I can’t fall sick, suddenly, or…”

“You don’t have the luxury of avoiding this,” Laurent said, and Sabre watched him, searching for the softness Simone said was there. His violet eyes gave away nothing. “Only clients hide their faces, here.”

Not just clients,Sabre thought, breaking Laurent’s impassive gaze.

Sabre was kept busy for most of the afternoon, cleaning the common room and foyer while Gwydion made an elaborate mask shaped like a bird of prey. Gwydion was quieter than Percival, more inclined towards comfortable silence, but he did stop every now and then to ask Sabre what he thought of a mask, holding them up to his angular face. He looked like one of the year-end dancers, lithe and wiry and a little severe, and only his soft blond hair smoothed his sharp edges.

Then he was gone, and Sabre found himself wheeling the cart of masks into the foyer while the lamps were lit on the street outside.

Someone knocked on the other side of the partition, and Sabre jumped. Laurent stood there, dressed all in black, jet earrings dangling in his hair.

“I’ll be here to greet the guests, for a time,” he said. “Since it’s your first night as a host.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” Sabre said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Laurent said. “It’s a full night.”

Sabre’s fingers curled on the ledger.

The first knock on the door felt like the pounding of boots on the ballroom floor. Sabre opened the door for a tall, light-haired Lord Chastain, the minister of the Hunt. Lord Chastain had given Elise a mare for her birthday just last year, but their invitations to the hunt on his estates dried up a few months ago. Now, he gave Sabre a long, steady look and handed him his cloak.

“Has becoming a whore robbed you of your tongue?” Lord Chastain asked. “Greet me properly.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sabre said. He took a steadying breath that did nothing while he hung up the cloak. “Welcome to the House of Onyx. If you would please choose a mask.”

Lord Chastain chose a mask shaped with wings on either side, black as a raven. It didn’t do much to hide him, not with his distinctive trim beard and silver-tipped boots, but the masks were probably just there for drama more than for real secrecy. Sabre opened the door of the partition and pulled on the string that would notify Nanette that her first client was waiting, making a bell chime somewhere upstairs.

“My lord, welcome.” Laurent lounged on a couch near the far corner of the room, next to the coffee service. “Sit with me while our dear Nanette puts her face on.”

Lord Chastain sat stiffly, and Sabre only just managed to fill his cup without spilling it over the edge. He felt like a shadow, scuttling under Lord Chastain’s notice while Laurent laughed and spoke of hunting dogs and city nobles like he’d been born to the title, and almost breathed a sigh of relief when there was another knock on the door.

The woman who entered this time didn’t recognize Sabre. She was a merchant, possibly, wealthy enough but without a title to ingratiate herself into the court. She even flashed Sabre a smile as he handed her a mask with gold lining. Percival and Gwydion greeted her almost immediately, kissing her on the cheek one after the other and guiding her up the stairs by the hand.

The third client was Roland Garnier, the second son of Lord Garnier, the minister in charge of the treasury. They’d been friends of a sort, even if Sabre’s mother and Lord Garnier didn’t exactly get along, and Sabre’s breath caught as Roland stared at him from the doorway. Roland broke into a slow smile.

“Well,” he said. “I thought you were sent here.”

“Roland,” Sabre said.

“That’s my lord now, isn’t it?” Roland said, taking off his coat. “Here you go. What am I supposed to call you? Courtesan? Mister? Slut, maybe, people in your profession like that, don’t they?”

Sabre blinked. Roland had always been so pleasant to him, before. Maybe in a dull sort of way, sure, but he’d gone along whenever Sabre suggested they go for a ride, and he’d danced with Sabre at more than one ball, then ignored their dance cards to drink stolen wine in the back with other second sons like Roland. Now, Roland’s voice had a harder edge.

Roland snapped his fingers. “Pay attention, Sab. Maybe they did strangle you with that rope, after all. I asked you a question.”

“I…don’t have a preference, my lord,” Sabre said.

“Then I’ll call you whore, because that’s what you are, right? Easier that way. All right, whore, summon the pretty one and get on with it.” Sabre moved towards the partition, and Roland snapped his fingers again. “Is there something you forgot to say, traitor?”

Sabre closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes, my lord. I apologize.”

“I’m sure there’s a lot you’re sorry for,” Roland said, picking out a mask as Sabre pulled on Simone’s cord. “You know, me and Devon and Olivier, maybe we should all hire you for a night. It’ll be like old times, except your bitch of a mother won’t be around to stop us from wiping our boots with you.”

Sabre had to force his hand not to shake as he opened the door to the partition. “My first night is already reserved, my lord.”

“We’ll take the second, then. It’ll be fun, I bet. You’ll like it,” Roland said, collapsing on a couch, “serving us the way you’re supposed to. Devon’s wanted to gag that mouth of yours for years. Maybe we’ll take you all at once, make you work for it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

It was harder, this time, to pour the tea. When Sabre knelt to serve it, Roland leaned forward, grabbing him by the side of the head. Sabre glanced at Laurent, who was watching them, eyes dark.

“This is the collar he gave you,” Roland said, and he touched the scales of the king’s collar at his neck. “It’s prettier than you deserve.”

“My lord!” Sabre tensed at the sound of Simone’s voice behind him. “How lovely to see you again so soon.”

“Next time, then,” Roland said to Sabre. He stood. “Simone, don’t you look divine.”

“I’m pleased my lord thinks so. If you’ll follow me?”

“Sure. Let me get rid of this tea, first,” Roland said, and, before Sabre could even rise from his knees, tipped the contents of his teacup over Sabre’s back.

* * *

It wentabout how Laurent thought it would.

The men and women who were of the merchant class did not recognize Sabre, for the most part. One or two stared at him a bit overlong, and he had a discreet inquiry by way of the silk merchant on his way out, but nothing overtly rude. Proving, Laurent thought, that nobles were in fact not the pinnacle of nobility, but rather the moss-strewn rocks on the bottom.

Which, he’d always known that, hadn’t he? There was a difference, they said, between nobles who earned their title through so-called service to the crown and those who inherited them. That without the generations of noblesse oblige to guide you, you’d be as uncouth as a merchant newly swimming in gold. And Laurent, who had a title, thought the difference was how those who inherited their titles didn’t have to earn them, and therefore did not comprehend what it might be like to lose them.

He’d known this would be unpleasant for Sabre, of course, which was why he wanted to get it over with before Sabre’s First Night. Lord Chastain had been a previous client of Laurent’s, a man who liked edging more than was sensible and was one of the few who could make Laurent say please, my lord, let me come and actually mean it. His tone toward Sabre wasn’t kind, but it was about what you’d expect from a man in charge of hunting small, defenseless animals and killing them for sport. He wouldn’t be surprised if his name showed up sooner rather than later in Sabre’s ledger. Nanette reported he liked to dress her as a boy and hunt her before fucking her. Sabre likely wouldn’t give chase as elegantly as Nanette, but the novelty would get Sabre a few ticks against his debt all the same.

Roland, though. The pleasure he took in his cruelty toward Sabre was simply the other side of what he enjoyed with Simone, but there’d been real antagonism there when he’d spilled the tea on Sabre’s back. And even though Laurent expected this, had in fact banked on this very thing making his House a tidy profit, it still took all his training not to grab the little pissant by his too-coiffed hair and snarl something about taking sadist lessons from an expert before trying to dom the help. But he’d done nothing, merely watched Sabre’s face when the scalding tea soaked through his shirt, saw the miserable expression at war with something entirely different, some other, darker desire coming so easily to the surface.

His first thought at Roland’s smirking promise to hire Sabre with his former friends had been an emphatic over my dead body, but then he remembered, again, why Sabre was there. Laurent was mildly disconcerted at how it seemed to be him that needed the reminder, not Sabre.

He’d asked Sabre to change his shirt, then got himself together and waited for the rest of them.

The next noble who sailed into the house that night was Lord Verre, who stared with hunger and barely-concealed hostility when he saw Sabre there.

“Well, the rumors are true, then,” he drawled. “And here I was hoping the king let you hang. Disgusting, but I suppose he wanted your traitor of a mother’s last thought to worry at what would become of you.” He looked pleased with himself, for that.

Thought of that on your way here, did you.

“Yes, my lord,” Sabre whispered.

“You know, if the king really wanted to have made an example of you, he should have used your mouth and come down your throat the moment he told them to let your family hang,” Lord de Verre said. “I was there that morning. You looked lovely under his boot while they choked to death. A pity how long it took your poor sister to die.”

Laurent cast his eyes heavenward, wondering if he really thought that was some original taunt and also a bit surprised King Emile hadn’t done that. It seemed like something the king would do, which did perhaps suggest he believed Sabre wasn’t involved in the de Valois plot. Whatever it was, Laurent didn’t know the particulars and didn’t want to.

“Would you, a mask, my lord,” Sabre managed, trembling on his knees, his eyes bright.

Lord de Verre smiled, reached out and took one from the table, crimson red, and honestly, it did very little for his coloring. “Maybe I’ll have an evening with you myself, whore. Do what the king should have done, make you take my cock while I tell an executioner to let them hang.”

He wouldn’t, Laurent thought, be the first.

Sabre spilled the tea, his hands shaking, and Lord de Verre just laughed until Margritte came to greet him. De Verre was, according to Margritte, a sadist, but an uninspired one, and that seemed to track.

Laurent watched Sabre clean up the tea service, kneeling and breathing too hard. “This is why they won’t want you to have lessons with Yves. They like seeing you serve, and fail, and bow beneath their cruelty.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sabre said, softly, and Laurent wondered if he even knew it was Laurent who was speaking to him.

One noble asked if he could strike Sabre, which Laurent played off with a laugh and a not without an appointment, and settled for having his tea with his boots on Sabre’s back, while Sabre braced himself on all fours as the lord’s heeled boots dug in hard enough to ensure he’d have to change his shirt, again.

It was after Laurent sent him off once more that Delauney de Mazet sailed in, beaming at Laurent and sweeping him a valiant bow. “Lord de Rue, your infamy continues to grow by leaps and bounds. You’re an inspiration to us all.”

Laurent took Delauney’s coat himself, and smiled as he accepted a kiss on each cheek. De Mazet was one of the rare nobles who didn’t seem to take himself quite so seriously, and whose primary mission in life as a second son seemed to be having fun and spending as much time away from Staria as possible. He was a commissioned officer in the royal navy, and had always been one of Laurent’s favorite clients. He was a submissive who liked Charon to work him over after long bouts at sea, where he was required to subdue his urges in favor of his command.

Delauney had been a frequent client at the House of Gold, one of the few who wanted Laurent to be dominant and who’d offered to marry him on no more than four occasions, or to bring him along as his personal valet while at sea. He was as far from cruel as a man could be, and Laurent had always been pleased to see him, even if he knew Delauney’s wild declarations of adoration were merely post-sex bliss and the relief of being put under. Laurent would not have done well, at sea. The saltwater did not agree with his hair.

“That’s the key to success in any endeavor, isn’t it, Lord de Mazet? Adaptability?”

“Is it? I rather thought it was audacity, myself.” Delauney grinned and took his favorite mask, one with a variety of rainbow feathers that made Laurent think of some rare tropical bird. “I’ve been away for ages and am in dire need of the back of Charon’s hand, do tell Yves and the twins it’s nothing personal, won’t you?”

“They won’t hold it against you, I assure you, de Mazet. If they were the type, they’d be working elsewhere.”

“You can call me Delauney, you know. We’re peers, now.”

De Mazet used to insist on it, back when he was paying Laurent for the evening. Laurent smiled at him, perhaps a tad warmer than most. “Normally I’d disagree, you’re the son of a Marquis. But if you’re ever looking to retire from His Majesty’s Navy, you’d be a formidable House lord indeed.”

Delauney laughed, but then his eyes widened as the door opened and Sabre walked in. “Sabre. It’s been some time.”

“Lord de Mazet,” Sabre said, eyes lowered. “It has.”

“I’m pleased, I really am, to see you alive. And I’m so sorry about what happened to your mother, and your sweet sister.” Delauney said, and it sounded sincere.

“They were traitors to the crown,” Sabre whispered, still to the floor, as he knelt once more before the tea service. It was probably cold, but Laurent doubted Delauney cared.

Delauney, who was seated at the couch, leaned forward and placed a careful hand on Sabre’s arm. “Be that as it may, they were your family, and it doesn’t make me any less sorry for your loss, or how you lost them.”

Sabre gave one soft, hiccuping sound and said, “Thank you, my lord. My sister, she always said that she wanted to—to horrify mother at her coming out ball, and dance first with you.”

Delauney said, “I would have been happy to, I’m a terrible dancer really, but much better at a little low-level scandal.”

“Ring for Charon, pet,” Laurent said, dominance threading his words.

Sabre drew in a shaky breath, and did as asked. Somehow, Laurent knew, Delauney’s well-meaning condolences were worse than all those other nobles’ casual cruelty could ever hope to be. That, he could get lost in, suffer so he went under. This was too raw, a different kind of pain entirely.

Charon appeared a few moments later, while Sabre composed himself and Laurent wondered if Delauney would be a good client for Sabre, or just leave him frustrated and miserable. Probably.

“Ah, there you are, you gorgeous beast of a man,” Delauney said, hopping to his feet when Charon entered. “Do you know I met a man from Arktos on my last trip? I’ll tell you all about it while you ravish me like a stolen Katoikos war prize.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Charon said, but perhaps there was something of a fondness there, too. Delauney wouldn’t have been the first to roleplay that with Charon, but he would probably laugh a lot more, until Charon had him under.

“Sabre, I...you’re in good hands, here. Remember everyone has secrets, and they all talk in their sleep.” Delauney reached down and ran his fingers through Sabre’s hair, which Laurent knew was doing Sabre no favors, before he left with Charon.

“My lord,” Sabre managed, white-faced and trembling. “Would you please…may I ask.”

Laurent sighed, grabbed a fistfull of his hair and pulled it, hard. “I didn’t allow for the possibility that a Starian noble would be capable of sincerity. That was worse than the taunts, wasn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question, but Sabre nodded. Or maybe he was just trying to make Laurent pull harder on his hair.

“He isn’t like the others, no,” said Sabre. “Please don’t send me to him. I don’t know if I could.”

“You don’t make the rules here, pet. I do. If he offers enough, you’ll go to him.” Laurent’s voice was firm but not unkind. “I know what you need and I know de Mazet isn’t it. You were almost under before his regard dragged you back up, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sabre said.

Laurent sighed. “Go warm up the tea and come back. The night is far from over.”

No one else exhibited any surprising amount of concern for Sabre’s well being, though, and there were certainly no more expressions of sorrow about Sabre’s family as people who lost their lives in the gruesome display of King Emile’s power. But Sabre was either outright ignored, stared at, mocked or belittled—and once, kicked, though Laurent did add a surcharge to the woman’s bill, for that—for the rest of the night, until Laurent stopped making him freshen his clothes and just let him be a mess. It went over well with the nobles, and when the last of the evening’s clients disappeared up the stairs—Lord de Baux, one of Yves’ favorites because “he comes in three minutes then brushes my hair for an hour and feeds me chocolate, it’s barely any effort”—Laurent considered telling Sabre to put the tea things away, but he was shaking so hard they’d end up with broken glass on the floor instead of cups.

Which Sabre would like kneeling on, probably. Considering he’d been doing the equivalent, mentally, for the last few hours.

“I’ll see to it, my lord. Take the fawn upstairs.” Simone stood in the doorway, makeup removed and dressed simply in her linen shift and a silk robe, her hair unbound. She looked smaller like this, without the armor of silks and satins, paint and perfumes they all donned to keep the softer parts of them safe. Courtesans like Simone were not the usual. She, like Laurent, long ago chose to hide her dominance in favor of sheer survival.

“Thank you, Simone,” Laurent said. “I’ll make a note for you on the ledger.”

She waved a hand. “It isn’t necessary.”

“Yes,” Laurent said quietly. “It is. I promised everyone who came here that you’d be paid fair for your work and I meant it.”

She shook her head. “You were a whore long enough, you should know that there are some things worth more to one than money. Like safety. Someone who understands.” Her eyes flickered to Sabre, swaying on his knees, his head pressed to Laurent’s thigh. “I hope you are right about what he can handle, my lord. There’s a difference between going under and drowning.”

Laurent inclined his head. “There is. And you’ll have to trust me.”

“I do. With my life. All of us here do, my lord. That’s what I meant, when I said some things matter more than money.”

“Come with me,” Laurent said, to Sabre. This time, he didn’t even have to tell him to crawl—Sabre did it, out of the front room and over floors stained muddy from the boots of nobles eager to see him break, shatter apart like glass.

* * *

There werevoices in the communal baths when Sabre passed them, and while Sabre had joined the others once or twice at the end of the night to bathe quietly while courtesans laughed and tossed scented soaps across the tile, Laurent led him on. It was a relief not to have to see anyone, and Sabre wondered if it would be like that every time, drifting uncomfortably on his own. Only Laurent’s hand on his hair grounded him.

“My mother would call this a lesson,” Sabre said, quietly, as he was led into Laurent’s private baths. “I think she would have taught me, eventually.”

“Would she.” Laurent’s tone of casual disinterest sounded affected, there in the dim light of the bath. “Prepare the bath, pet.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sabre said. He turned on the taps and knelt there for a moment, watching the sunken tub fill with steam. “It’s a fault of mine.”

“Running a bath? Awkward for you. Strip for me. Fold your clothes when you’re done.”

Sabre moved slowly, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “Not that. I was inclined to think I was apart, from politics. Too close to the throne to worry, too far to be trouble. I was going to go into the military, did you know?”

“Can’t say I was aware.”

“I swore myself to the king,” Sabre said. “When his wife died.”

“I suppose you’d have to, to prove your loyalty.”

“Oh, no. I just felt sorry for him,” Sabre said. “Maybe that’s why he’s doing this. Maybe it hurt him the same way, being pitied. Maybe that’s what broke him.”

“The man killed his own wife, Sabre.” Laurent was already undressed, beautiful in the hazy air of the baths. “Even if she was a traitor. You might be overthinking it. That’s enough, I think. Don’t speak when you enter the bath.”

“He didn’t kill her,” Sabre said.

Laurent went still.

“That is.” Sabre’s stomach lurched, terror stirring below. “No. I could tell. It was a guess.”

It wasn’t, though. He knew because Adrien had told him.

Adrien, gangly for a young teenager, had pounded at the door of their royal suites in the dead of night, and sobbed brokenly in the hall as Sabre’s father opened the door. Sabre had come with Adrien and his father to the throne room, with Adrien clinging to his hand, pale and wild-eyed.

She saw something when she cut herself on a knife, tonight,Adrien had said, as they ran. She tried to, tried to change it. Change the future, with a spell. But she—she cut too deep—

Enough,Sabre’s father had said. Tell no one of this, Sabre. Adrien. Even your mother, or your sister, or the king.

They’d sworn, there on the way to the throne room, where the queen lay dying. They’d stayed silent as Sabre’s father dragged the king away from her body, as the court whispered around them in the days to come, as the king started the first string of executions, searching for the one who taught his wife the magic that killed her.

Then Sabre’s father had died, and there was only Sabre and Adrien left to remember.

“He killed his cousin, though,” Sabre said. “Her daughter.” He slipped into the bath. “Maybe it’s because I take after my father. Ah. Sorry, my lord. I’ll be quiet.”

It was better, that way. He sank into the heat of the bath, and wondered if the king thought of him, hidden away in the pleasure district. If it was a more satisfying end than a death in the quarries. If there was any part of him, the part that belonged to the man who didn’t have to watch his wife die by her own hand, that thought he was worth saving.

Laurent watched him carefully as Sabre followed his instructions to wash Laurent’s hair and knead product through his own until it was silk-soft. He was still drifting, but it was easier to be quiet, to follow simple orders. He wasn’t trembling by the time he stepped out of the bath, at least.

“My lord,” Sabre said, when he was dry, setting his towel aside to be laundered in the morning. “What will I do, to come down, when I start taking clients?”

“The other courtesans usually get together in the baths, afterwards,” Laurent said. “Or they go to Charon.”

“Does anyone...” Sabre tilted his head so he could rest against Laurent’s thigh. Laurent touched his hair, still damp from the baths, and Sabre held back a sigh. “Does anyone go to you?”

Laurent was silent.

“Would you let me,” Sabre said, quietly. “If I asked?”

“It isn’t a common practice,” Laurent said, which wasn’t a no. Not exactly. “Come.”

Laurent lit a lamp by the bed while Sabre knelt there, watching the light slide over Laurent’s body as he moved. He couldn’t imagine daring to hire him, if Sabre were still a noble. Sabre wouldn’t have known how to speak around him, even how to look at him, without making an utter fool of himself. That it took his title being stripped away to be able to speak to him at all wasn’t lost on Sabre.

When Laurent returned with the cuffs, Sabre shifted uneasily, looking down. “My lord.” He dragged his lower lip between his teeth, steadying himself. “Could I sleep on the floor, tonight?”

Laurent’s gaze was dark, shadowed by the light at his back. “Fetch a blanket from the closet and kneel at the foot of the bed. No cushion tonight, I think.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sabre said. He didn’t think he could manage a soft bed. Not just yet. He took down a blanket from the closet and knelt for Laurent, sighing when the cuffs were slipped on and the lead tied to the end of the bed.

For a moment, he thought Laurent would ask more of him, standing there with Sabre kneeling at his feet, but then he just tugged at Sabre’s hair in farewell and climbed into bed, leaving Sabre feeling strangely hollow.

It took a while for Sabre to sleep. He wasn’t sure when it happened. He slid into dreams so smoothly, rising from bed with his hands bound behind him rather than before him, climbing the rickety steps to a wooden platform under the open sky.

His sister was hanging beside him, thrashing on the end of her rope. Her feet kicked at the air, and the sounds she made were unnatural, inhuman, low and guttural.

“Poor thing,” said a woman at Sabre’s feet. He looked down. The queen sat on the edge of the platform. Blood ran down her hands as she stitched at an embroidery hoop, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder. “Poor thing.”

She’d called Sabre that, before. When he was young, running about with Adrien while the queen watched them with her odd, distant gaze. Poor thing.

Maybe she’d seen him on the platform, long ago, when she pricked her finger on a needle or stared down at a gash in her leg from a fall. Maybe that’s why she never invited Elise, when she was born, or Sabre’s mother, to the rare outings she and Adrien and Sabre used to go on, when the queen wasn’t wrapped up in her husband’s embrace.

In the dream, the queen stabbed the needle through her arm and tugged it through.

“Poor thing,” she said.

The platform fell under Sabre’s feet, and he fell. The rope jerked at his throat, then gave, ripping apart as he tumbled alone in the dark. He scrabbled at nothing, scraped his fingers against a wall he couldn’t see, before he was flung into the open, the empty, where there was nothing to meet his grasping hands.

He woke sobbing, his hands clenched tight around the lead, curled up at the foot of the bed with the sheets kicked off in a tangle behind him. He gasped for air, shaking violently, and flinched when Laurent’s shadow passed over him.

“Do you know who I am?” Laurent asked. He didn’t touch Sabre, just sat there, a hand on the mattress, leaning over him.

“Yes,” Sabre said, in a terrible, harsh voice. “Yes, my lord.”

“Will you let me release you?”

“Not from the...” Sabre could barely get the words out. “Not my hands.”

“I’ll leave them bound. I’m just removing them from the bed.”

Sabre flinched again when Laurent came close, but allowed him to guide him to his knees. “I’m. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I doubt you could help it,” Laurent said, dryly. He tugged at Sabre’s hair, which helped somewhat, dragged him farther from the brink. “Remember to breathe.”

His heart was still hammering too hard in his chest, but it was easier to breathe with Laurent there at the end of the bed.

“My lord,” he said, still a little breathless, still half frozen with terror, closing his eyes to the pull of Laurent’s hand in his hair. “My lord, if I asked, would you help me.”

“Is this not helping?” Laurent asked.

“Please.” Sabre raised his bound hands, bowed his head. “I can’t bow the way you’re supposed to, anymore, and I know it’s asking, asking so much of you, but please, if you could…help me feel something else.” He took a shivering breath. “I’ll try to make it up for you. To be good. Please, my lord.” He didn’t think he could bow all the way, not after being held down by the king, but he did bend over his knees, fingers clenched before him.

“Please.”