Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: OF PRINCES AND SLAVES

Previously: Ruslan has been sent to the Royal Palace to serve his `practicum', a 48-hour period in which he is treated as a slave – a requirement he must fulfill before he can join the International Association of Male Slave Owners (IAMSO) and acquire his own slave. But he is also on a secret mission – to discover who, among the slaves at the palace, attempted to kill the Prince Regent's son, Abdullah, by introducing poison into his food. The principal suspect is Abdullah's slave – Matti.

Ruslan endures the first day of his practicum, and has been taken to the slave sleeping quarters by Declan, a trusty charged with showing him the ropes. En route, they pass through the `Hall of Shame', where the mounted heads of failed slaves are displayed – including Jackson, Alex(ei)'s predecessor.

RUSLAN: TUESDAY, 6 DECEMBER, MORNING – SLAVE QUARTERS, ROYAL PALACE

• Time to get up, pal. My alarm clock just went off.

Declan's voice. He lifted his arm from around my chest – where it had somehow wound up without my realizing it. I rose from the bed the two of us had shared. I had, to my surprise, slept soundly.

The trusties had their own separate bathroom – a communal shower and a common trough for a urinal, but four individual stalls for your number twos and enough sinks to brush your teeth and shave. Toiletries provided were labeled with individual slave numbers – including one set (4397) for me. These folks were well-organized.

I was surprised to hear slaves chatting freely with each other. What a boon this was to them – having a space where they could just be themselves – a luxury that solo slaves like Alexei never enjoyed. On the other hand, Alexei had no fear that a transgression might land him in the Hall of Shame – where Declan had noticed me pausing in front of Jackson's head last night:

• Did you know that slave?

• Who is he?

• One of the Americans. There's some kind of consortium – run by some of your countrymen, actually – who provide the Family with a lot of their slaves. This one was the personal slave of one of those Russians. His master found him lacking and donated him to the Family in hopes they would straighten him out.

• Seems they didn't.

• No.

• A shame. Of course I didn't know him. But he reminded me of one of the slaves I supervised at my master's factory. He could almost be his twin – startled me for a moment.

• Ah, I wondered. You looked like you recognized him.

That I did, Declan, that I did. My cock has been inside that mouth many times. Those missing teeth – I was responsible for that. And I had spent many an hour flogging his back and fucking his ass and trying to get him to realize that it was in his own best interests to keep his master happy. But Jackson was too stupid to see that and so Dmitri got rid of him. I wondered if Dmitri knew how short his life would turn out to be. But then, I tried not to think about Dmitri's former slaves. Slava was safely in retirement on Slave Island, but the others I had no idea about. Nor did I want to know.

Breakfast was on the same floor as the dormitory, -2, but to reach the slave cafeteria we had to take an elevator up one floor to -1, walk through the floor, and take another elevator back down to -2. This ridiculously circuitous route was designed to force us through the Hall of Shame's opposite number, the Hall of Pride. As we approached it, Declan's expression took on something close to rapture.

• This is where I want to be in three years.

• Really?

• Yeah. I'm thirty-seven. I know, I don't look it.

His age wasn't what had provoked my surprise. What did he mean – this is where he wanted to be?

We entered the room and I saw. I didn't understand, but I saw. It was another room of former slaves – or parts of them. Again, heads adorned the walls of the partitions; mounted beneath them were their plump stuffed buttocks. In between was a small plaque, which contained not only their slave number but their former name' and place of origin'.

• You want to be here. Your head, your ass – stuffed and on display.

• (positively beaming) Exactly. What an honor. I'll have options for how I want to go – not like the losers we saw last night, who get – well, I don't want to describe it. And my plaque will say Declan, Limerick, Ireland', not just 3914'. It will be a testament to my triumph over adversity and my ability to serve my masters faithfully and successfully. It's the greatest honor a slave can have.

• But what about Slave Island? If you're that good a slave . . . ?

• Slave Island? What's that?

Shit. He didn't even know about Slave Island. Better repair the damage.

• A rumor I heard. That there was a place for retired slaves if their masters were happy with them.

• (laughing) You can't believe those old wives' tales. People will tell you anything. No slave lives past forty, you know that.

In fact, I knew that not to be true. When a slave reached the age of forty, masters could let him retire to Slave Island, terminate him – or retain him. IAMSO strongly discouraged retention: Keeping an older slave could only damage the master's reputation and prestige. Most masters did choose the dispatch option, but an exceptional slave could survive to old age in the South Pacific. It did not surprise me, though, that the Royal Palace, which never coddled slaves, systematically terminated them when they hit the big four-oh. Ironic, in a way, as the Royal Family had been the principal funder of Slave Island – I suppose they had a vested interest in keeping maintenance costs low by not adding to the population.

I wanted to feel sorry for Declan, but he was happy just thinking about being honored in memoriam, and if that was enough for him, I wasn't going to dangle the possibility of a longer life he would never live.

During breakfast, Declan informed me of the day's initial duties:

• You're to spend the morning as a groundskeeper. That's a good gig, but watch out for the trusty in charge, an Afghan named Farzad, though you'll never hear his name except from me. He can be mean if he catches you slacking off.

TUESDAY, 6 DECEMBER, LATE MORNING – PALACE GARDENS

It was hot, even in the morning, but the work was pleasant. I was a hard worker and Farzad, while standing over me as a suspect new slave, had no complaints. After an hour or so, he left me alone. Blessedly, with no royalty around, I had no sexual duties to perform.

I saw – I think – a surprising sight: South Carolina. Dmitri, knowing that he was no longer Rashid's boy, had shown me his picture on the odd chance that I would encounter him. I half expected to see him in the Hall of Shame last night. But I think this guy was him. He had been gelded – and if Rashid's slave needed to be taught a lesson, I would guess that, in this establishment, gelding would be the lesson of choice.

Declan picked me up at noon. He was wearing his validation sticker, so one of the royals must have selected him for some morning entertainment. I wondered how many royals there were. The PR apparently had three brothers and four sons. There must be dozens of cousins and uncles and cousins of uncles and uncles of cousins and maybe cousins of cousins and uncles of uncles, to fill up such a huge palace – and require so many slaves.

After a quick lunch in the slave quarters, Declan gave me news I was not anxious to hear.

• You're to report to Khalid at one o'clock. Be prompt. You don't want to be late to Khalid.

I didn't want to be anywhere near Khalid. But this was my practicum, and I couldn't expect it to be filled by labor alone.

TUESDAY, 6 DECEMBER, EARLY AFTERNOON – PRINCE KHALID'S APARTMENT

As it turned out, my ass wasn't filled by Khalid alone. Mustafa was with him, and I was subjected to my first spitroasting – something Alexei didn't experience for weeks.

While they were sawing away at opposite ends of me, the two of them carried on a conversation, partly about me but mostly not. I remembered the P.R. noting that they had the odd habit of discussing business while their cocks were mid-slave. But it turned out to be valuable information – gained only because they had no clue that I understood a word of what they said.

• (Mustafa) So this trusty we're fucking is going to be Abdullah's bodyguard and food-taster. I can see the bodyguard part – it's big enough – but food-taster? I'd have that treasonous boy of his tasting everything ahead of time. Let 4387 be the one who dies, not this one.

• I agree. If our brother is not careful, 4387 will succeed in killing Abdullah. Were I in charge, the boy would be roasted alive on a spit. A shame we don't do that anymore.

• Sadly, Khalid, you're not in charge. The key is the trial in January. We've got to get a DS out of the jury.

• Which is why we've got to work now to secure the votes. If Abdullah were of age, he'd get three out of the twelve votes on the jury. We'd never get the ten votes we need to DS, he could veto it. But – ha! – he's under twenty-one, which means he sits on the jury but can't vote. Out of the nine others, we still need five-sixths to DS. That means eight out of the nine. We can geld it easily enough – just needs a majority, and I'm pretty sure we've got Farouk, Kemal and Sayid.

• Gelding is not enough. 4387 needs to go. We have to DS it. Maybe the trial will persuade others.

• The boy is comely, works hard, and fucks well; the only way we'll get a DS out of the jury is if we can persuade them that it poisoned Abdullah.

4387' was obviously Abdullah's slave, but what did DS' stand for? Ah – Dome Slave.

• We could pressure Rashid.

• It won't work, Mustafa. You know which brother he's loyal to, and it's not us.

• And our uncles Salman and Rahim are loyal to His Royal Haughtiness as well – they'll kiss his ass so they can get good slaves next year for their grandsons. The key is HRH – if we could persuade him, we'd even have a unanimous verdict.

• I don't think he's any great fan of the boy. He just doesn't want to disappoint Abdullah. If he can get a replacement he thinks is better – one that will keep Abdullah happy – he might just swing over to our side. And then the rest will follow.

• A replacement he thinks is better – that sounds like the germ of an idea, Khalid, and I suspect you have more than a germ.

• I do. And the answer lies in Russia. With Little Big Man. HRH has the hots for Dmitri's boy. It was clear when they were here in September – he was like Odysseus tied to the mast, hearing the siren call and yearning to respond. He was itching to fuck that sweet ass. If Dmitri would sell his boy, HRH would replace 4387 in a flash, just so he could exercise his Droit du Seigneur.

• That's for a woman's wedding night.

• Droit du Père, then. Anyway, he'd borrow the boy and fuck the shit out of it at every opportunity. He tried to get it in September, but Dmitri turned him down.

• What makes you think he won't now?

• He said Dmitri was open to the possibility. I'm not sure on what basis.

• We need to have this battle on our turf, get Dmitri down here. What if we invite him down for trials? He could be an honorary judge for some of the trials – not the main ones, of course, but some of the cousins' boys.

• (sarcastically) Brilliant idea, Mustafa. Have you forgotten that those trials are AFTER 4387's?

• Do you have a better idea?

• As a matter of fact, I do.

• Tell me.

But before he could spill the beans, he spilled his seed – into me. At which point, the teenagers Jamal and Malik entered the room, and Khalid offered Jamal sloppy seconds.

• (Jamal, a little timidly) I don't know, uncle. I feel weird fucking a man who weighs twice what I do. - (Malik) I'll fuck it!

• (Mustafa) Malik, you don't give up, do you? You'll get your chance when you're fifteen like everyone else.

• (Malik) But Jamal doesn't want to. And he called it a `man'. Look, uncle, I'm hard, he's not.

• (Khalid) Jamal, you want to fuck this boy, don't you?

• (Jamal) Yes, of course, uncle.

• (Khalid) Then get hard.

• (Jamal) Yes, uncle. I'm sorry about calling it a man. It just slipped out.

Two minutes later, he slipped in. He was not as fully developed as his uncles, nor anywhere near as skilled, and shot his load in nothing flat. Malik looked on jealously and shouted rude encouragements to his brother.

After they had finished using me, Khalid took me into the bathroom, trailed by his nephews, and ordered me to clean it – "every inch". I began looking around for cleaning supplies, only to get a slap on my rump.

• Clean it – NOW!

And when I hesitated, kicked me sternly in the ribs. Malik, wanting to join the fun, added a kick of his own.

I understood. I knelt to the floor and began licking it with my tongue.

• (Khalid, to the young princes) His previous master did not know how to train him. He was looking around for cleaning supplies!

• (Jamal) There aren't any?

• My god, Jamal. It's a good thing you won't have your own slave until you're seventeen. You have so much to learn.

• I'm sixteen next month. Not so far away.

It took me well over an hour to finish cleaning the bathroom. When I emerged, Declan was waiting for me – a sight for sore eyes, I daresay.

TUESDAY, 6 DECEMBER, LATE AFTERNOON – PRINCE REGENT'S APARTMENT (OFFICE)

• I had you spend time with Khalid and Mustafa today. Did you learn anything useful?

• Indeed I did, Your Majesty. They are intent upon putting Abdullah's boy on the dome at his trial, but are three votes shy. They are hoping to persuade you and then Rashid and others will then follow your lead.

• Putting 4387 on the dome is not news. The vote count is. Obviously, they're politicking. Kemal, Farouk – who else have they got?

• Sayid, Your Majesty.

• Of course. Well, if your investigation finds that 4387 is, in fact, guilty, of course it will go on the dome, no matter what Abdullah wants. To be honest, if I voted with Khalid and Mustafa, it would go a long way toward smoothing things over between us.

• Are you telling me that I should `discover' that Abdullah's slave is guilty?

• I'm tempted – but (gesturing toward the human sculptures on the dome) contrary to what some might think, I do have a sense of right and wrong. I want an honest investigation, Ruslan. And if the boy is innocent, I won't put him on the dome.

• They have an idea to persuade you otherwise, Your Majesty.

• They do, do they?

• They think if you were to obtain Dmitri's slave, that you could replace Abdullah's boy with him. Abdullah would be mollified, and you, having access to him through your right as a father, would be, well, satisfied.

• Hmm. (Pause) They might be right. I just might take that deal. That boy is so delightful I nearly took it over 4387. When Dmitri brought it here in September . . . (sigh). It's possible Abdullah would be so pleased with it that he'd forgive me for putting his boy on the dome. Yes, that's actually quite a good plan. But would your boss sell me his boy?

• He is undecided about Alexei's future. I'm not at all certain he will renew him at the end of his year. That's June.

• I don't have until June, Ruslan. The boy's trial is in six weeks.

Deciding he had heard enough, he put me back on the clock. While his phone was out, he pressed a button and spoke the two words "My office", in English. A moment later Declan appeared, presented himself, and then positioned himself in a corner. I wondered why he had been summoned.

The Prince Regent began a new interrogatory.

• So how often have you been fucked today, boy?

• Three times in the ass, Your Majesty, and once in the mouth.

• That's it? Were my brothers responsible?

• Two of them, Your Majesty. And your son Jamal.

• Oh, good for him. The boy needs more experience. Declan, would you like to fuck this boy?

• (Declan, with enthusiasm) Yes, Your Majesty.

His cock started to rise in anticipation.

• No, not now. But you may have it when you take it to bed tonight. (to me) Now, Boy, you see, when you have been a trusty for a year, you may fuck other slaves – not personal slaves, but kitchen and garden slaves. You may, of course, fuck a personal slave if the Prince Regent gives you permission, eh, boy?

That last bit was to Declan, who interpreted that `eh, boy?' as a question and responded eagerly.

• Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty.

Funny, Declan had not expressed interest in my body before now. But the prospect had made him hard and he was making no effort to suppress the rigidity of his penis. And the feeling was starting to be mutual.

• But right now, it's my turn. Boy, take him to the Fuck Room and tie him over the sawhorse.

I was expecting a cock up my ass, but instead the Prince Regent warmed it with a paddle. He swung a mean paddle – not as mean as I was capable of – but it stung plenty hard. I was worried that my ass would be so red that it would show when I returned to St. Petersburg. I would have to make sure Alexei was blindfolded before I stripped for discipline sessions.

And then the PR fucked me, with Declan watching.

I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the Fuck Room, putting new sheets on his bed and washing the old ones (which bore stains). He had me do some calisthenics with Declan and then sent us both to his personal kitchen prior to the dinner hour.

The kitchen, such as it was, had no cooking facilities other than a microwave. There was a refrigerator, a bar, and some cabinets with tableware and snack foods, presumably for when the P.R. got the late night munchies. But no stove. And no Henri to do the cooking. There was, however, a large dumbwaiter and a computer. Declan, free to talk to me now that we were out of the `master's presence, explained that the P.R. had, earlier in the day, ordered his food, which a slave entered into the computer. It was sent up via the dumbwaiter. I thought about the fact that Prince Abdullah had been poisoned.

• How do they know the food is safe?

• The two boys taste it first. The slaves downstairs who prepare the food for the Prince Regent know that he has food tasters, and they would not want to kill their fellow slaves.

• So I imagine all of the royalty have food tasters.

• Not officially. Naturally, any master can always order his slave to taste his food, but it's his decision. The Prince Regent, of course, rules the country, so it's official policy that his food be tasted in advance. Downstairs, only the most trusted slaves handle his food. A few years ago, some spoiled fish got served to the Prince Regent and he vomited all night. The slave responsible – well, you would have seen him last night if we'd gone down a different aisle.

In the Hall of Shame. That's what I call incentive for quality food control.

To my relief, I was only called upon to help serve the meal, not to have it served onto me. This disappointed Malik.

• Can't we eat off the new slave tonight, father? That was fun.

• No. That is a first-night duty only.

• (Jamal) I think it would be fun to have food served onto you. Could I do it sometime?

From my vantage point in the corner, I could observe the disturbed reactions of everyone in the room.

• (Rashid) Nephew, sometimes I think you'd rather be a slave than a master.

• (Jamal) Maybe I –

The boy checked himself. Mustafa and Khalid exchanged looks. I wondered if Rashid hadn't hit on a truth.

• (Khalid) The boy is young, Rashid. He'll learn. And he quite enjoyed fucking the new boy this afternoon, didn't you, Jamal.

• (Jamal) Yes, uncle. Very much so.

Rashid raised his eyebrows – and exchanged a look with Mustafa. Abdullah kept his head low, not wanting to be part of this conversation.

• (Prince Regent) This is an inappropriate discussion for the dinner hour.

He looked embarrassed – and I caught him glancing in my direction. He alone in the room was aware that I could understand every word of what was being said and didn't want any potential dirty laundry aired outside of his closed circle.

WEDNESDAY, 7 DECEMBER, ROYAL PALACE

I slept soundly, despite my ordeal in the Punishment Room last night. At least no additional strokes were planted on my blemished backside. My balls, however, were put to the screws – literally, in a vise – and an attempt at fisting me – unsuccessful – was initiated. I sucked a number of cocks and drank a lot of piss and was put into a number of terribly uncomfortable and awkward bondage positions, with a large dildo up my ass and a penis gag in my mouth that nearly reached my throat. I was punched about, kicked, zapped inside – and then spitroasted three times in succession.

After I was cleaned up, Declan took me back to the Trusty Sleeping Quarters. Again we had to pass through the Hall of Shame, where at least we were routed through a different aisle and I was not confronted with the head of anyone I knew. When we got between the sheets – trusties got sheets! – Declan asked if he could take advantage of the privilege the Prince Regent had afforded him to take my ass. I didn't want him reporting back that I had refused, so I agreed. Declan then penetrated me for my eighth fuck of the day – but this one was tender, whispering affectionate words as he penetrated me. Afterwards, he just lay on top of me for a while, planting kisses on the back of my neck. And then he flipped me over and kissed me properly. Ruslan Jr. was alive and well and itching for release. To my surprise, Declan took it into his mouth and gave a quite superior blow job. Damn, I thought, it was a shame this slave was slated for dispatch in three years. I wondered if I could persuade the Prince Regent to –

No, Ruslan. Think of this like the prime directive on Star Trek. Don't interfere with other worlds. It's not your business how anyone else treats their slaves. As if the Prince Regent was going to listen to Dmitri's handyman for advice on slave management anyway.

I fell asleep wrapped in Declan's arms, and it was a sweet sleep. And woke up knowing I only had nine hours left in my practicum before I could embark on the real reason I was here.

I was assigned to tending livestock, livestock that was slated to become food; I was grateful not to have been assigned to the abattoir that effected that transformation. (How did a naked slave handle a thousand-pound bull with horns?) My job was feeding chickens, sheep and cattle (no pigs, naturally) and, yes, cleaning up their shit.

A shower was welcome after those hours of work – I was not smelling very sweet – and, after a quick lunch, was taken back to the Prince Regent for a couple of hours of work tidying his apartment and then standing quietly in the corner doing nothing. An easy day for which I was extremely grateful; no one had fucked me all day.

A few minutes after three I heard a tone and the Prince Regent looked up from his computer at his phone and nodded.

• Congratulations, your practicum is over. Ordinarily, there's a graduation ceremony at which you'd be gangbanged, but you've already taken more cocks than you would have at the IAMSO center in Greece. But I wanted to put you through the ringer. So that when you become a master you can be just as tough and unforgiving. You know now that they can handle it. So – no reason to be kind. They're only slaves, Ruslan. Remember that.

• Thank you, Your Majesty. I think I didn't need that many cocks to learn that lesson but I endured them – and if I can endure them, a slave can endure them.

• They need fucking, Ruslan. It is not just for our pleasure. It is for them to know their place in the world. It is the nature of life – everywhere the strong dominate the weak. Big fish swallow little fish, the eagle devours the rabbit, the cat toys with the mouse. Even within the same species the runt of the litter is ignored and left to die. Only among us humans do some have this misguided sense of equality. There has never been equality. Slaves need to be kept in their place, Ruslan. And they need our cocks to keep them there.

• I'll be happy to give them mine.

• It's one they'll pay attention to, that's for sure.

The lesson over, he summoned Declan who escorted me to Prince Abdullah's suite and left. Abdullah was with his slave – my first glance at the boy, but I scarcely had time to notice. Abdullah may know I was no slave myself, but the suspect in question didn't, and so the moment I entered the room I dropped to the floor and presented myself for inspection in the usual slave fashion.

Abdullah poked a finger inside my anus. Then he walked around in front of me to address me, though he did not order me up. I remained on all fours.

• Your hole is dry. My father didn't fuck you before sending you here?

• No, Your Highness.

• You're tight, though – I'll give you that. You are my father's property, but you have been assigned to me for the time being. Therefore, I rather think you should call me Master' and not Your Highness'. Agreed?

• Yes, Master.

You're asking a slave if he agrees? And you rather think I should call you `Master'? A master should never show doubt or second-guessing like that to a slave.

• I would take my pleasure in you, but you're not my type – I like my slaves small and trim. Besides, your ass is far from your best feature. That really is quite an impressive organ. Matti, would you like to be fucked by that?

That question was addressed to the slave that, prior to my adopting inspection position, I had glimpsed standing quietly in the corner. Undoubtedly, he was the one under suspicion. But I was more startled to hear yet another breach of protocol – were not all the slaves here called `Boy'? Or by their numbers? Yet here was the heir to the throne calling his slave by what was presumably his own name. I was shocked – I couldn't imagine his father or uncles would sanction that.

The slave responded appropriately:

• If it so pleases you, Master.

• (Abdullah, smiling, to me) Doubtless you are well-trained enough to give a similar answer. That is the problem with slave protocols. You never get a truly honest answer. (to Matti) I want your honest answer, Matti – would you like to be fucked by that?

• Master, that was my honest answer. My own pleasure does not matter. But I do not think it would be a physical sensation that I would enjoy.

• I shouldn't think so. Cocks that large in circumference do not run in the Royal Family. Although we make up for it in enthusiasm. (to me) Boy, do you know why you are here?

• I am here to serve you and fulfill your desires, Your Highness.

• A proper slave response. I want you to be honest, boy, and answer the damn question. You are my father's slave – you bear his seal. And yet you have been assigned to me. Do you know why?

Of course I knew why. Abdullah, I presumed, knew why. So this question was for the slave's benefit. How did he want me to answer? I chose –

• No, Your Highness. A master does not owe an explanation to a slave.

• Quite right, boy. But you have a job to do here and you cannot do it without knowing what it is. Boy, my life may be under threat. An attempt has been made to poison me, and I may face physical assault from a person or persons unknown. You are here to protect me. You will be my official food taster and you will accompany me wherever I go and defend me from any attack by one or more slaves. Are there any questions?

• Yes, Master.

• Ask.

• What if the assault is not from a slave?

• (laugh) I doubt any of my relatives would be so foolish. But in that case you will put yourself between me and the assailant, but you will not strike a royal or attempt to push him away. That would be a violation punishable by death. As would allowing him to kill me. So the point is to not let it happen. Got it?

• Yes, Master.

Fortunately, since I was not really a slave, I would do whatever was necessary to defend the young prince. It would blow my cover – but it would also solve the case. Nevertheless, I asked the question just to see how he would answer it in front of his boy.

He dismissed the boy. From my position I could only see the back side of him as he passed me on his way out of the room – and what an attractive back side it was.

• Okay, you can get up now. We need to talk.

Abdullah had inherited his father's good looks but lacked his beard – with one, he would look more mature. Who knows what he had inherited from his birth-mother; no doubt the royal sperm had been implanted into the egg of the comeliest of royal females – if, in this land, `royal females' wasn't an oxymoron. He was nearly as tall as his father but not as broad – I could help him develop his strength if given the opportunity – which I wouldn't be.

I couldn't read him – there was a surface veneer of calm authority and self-assuredness, and yet there was an insecurity there as well; perhaps it was just the burden of being the son, the `next' one with such high expectations placed up on him, without the knowledge of when – if ever – he would become king.

He invited me to sit in a velvet-covered wingback chair which normally would have been covered before seating a naked man who might conceivably fart onto it – but this chair had doubtless never hosted a naked man, only robed royalty. Abdullah's demeanor changed instantly, from a controlling (if overly familiar) master to an anxious young man of nineteen.

• Matti's innocent. I swear he is.

• You call him Matti.

• That's his name. I find all this Boy' business silly. I can't tell you how many conversations have needed somebody to say "Wait – which Boy are you talking about?" And then they get into the number thing, which is really insulting. Matti doesn't need to lose his name to know he's a slave. Believe me, he knows he's a slave. He doesn't get uppity because I call him by his name. Naturally, I only use Boy' in front of others.

• Except just now, with me.

• So far as he knows, you're a slave. And a slave isn't going to tell a master . . . oh – can I trust you? You won't tell my father – or anyone else – that I use his name?

The lad's anxiety – and earnestness – and naiveté – was present on every wrinkle on his face.

• You can trust me, Your Highness. I am here to help. Why are you so convinced the boy is innocent? He's the one who brings you your food, after all.

• Exactly why it would be stupid of him to try it. He'd be the obvious suspect. And he's not stupid, Ruslan. He's very smart. But there's a more important reason. He's devoted to me. He's adapted to being a slave so well – I think he knows now it is what he was born to be. He has no motive for wanting to hurt me.

• So why are your uncles so convinced that he did?

• They've been against Matti from the beginning. I'm not sure why. I think it has something to do with the deal Father made with Little Big Man. Uncle Khalid and Uncle Mustafa got the slaves they wanted, but Uncle Rashid got stuck with a terrible slave – a Black boy from South Carolina. They should have put him on the Dome but they didn't have the votes, so they just gelded him and put him in the gardens. I guess he's worked out there, as I'd recognize him if I saw him up on the Dome.

• Yes, but why your boy?

• To punish Father, through me. They were also outraged at the incident in September when Little Big Man was here. Matti is a diver and Father arranged a competition between him and your employer's slave, who is also a diver.

Alexei was a diver? I had no idea. Things Dmitri doesn't tell me...

• Matti won the contest and Father rewarded him by allowing him to be your boy's master for a half hour. Khalid and Mustafa were scandalized. Father allowed a slave – not a trusty – but an ordinary personal slave – to fuck another slave. And to cane him. And to put him in bondage and kick him into the pool – Dmitri's boy had to be rescued to keep him from drowning, which would have been a diplomatic disaster had it occurred. Khalid and Mustafa felt that this had established an intolerable precedent and that it could not be allowed to stand; they wanted Matti removed from his post. And they didn't want to settle for him just working in the garden like Uncle Rashid's boy.

• Do you think they did the poisoning themselves, to frame your boy?

• I wouldn't put it past them. But I don't know how you could ever find that out – you can't interview them without blowing your cover.

• I could maybe talk to their slaves.

• Don't. Think for a moment. If Uncle Khalid or Uncle Mustafa was involved, how would they go about it? They have no direct access to my food – the poisoning must have been done in the kitchen. My uncles would never allow themselves to be seen with common kitchen slaves. They'd have to send their own slaves – to either poison my food themselves if they could somehow figure out how to do that – or to persuade others to do so. And if their own slaves were involved, you can be sure they'd be under strict orders to report any hint that anyone knew the truth. A slave can initiate a conversation if he's under orders to do so. So the moment you asked them about it, your cover would be blown, you'd be sent back to Russia, and they'd be even more determined to put Matti on the Dome.

• What about Rashid? He's the one who got stuck with the bad slave. Seems like he'd have the most motive.

• Rashid isn't as hardline as Khalid or Mustafa. He was the one who spared his boy from the dome and put him in the gardens. Mind you, he still wanted him gelded, but once the boy was replaced – and he's delighted with the replacement – Rashid was ready to move on. He doesn't hold grudges. And he's closer to my father than the others. Mind you, Khalid and Mustafa don't hate my father – they love him in their own way – but they think some of his decisions are unwise and they want him to run the place more in line with their own vision. They think he's too lax.

It seemed to me that the Prince Regent's vision was anything but lax, but obviously there was room for even more harshness.

Having gleaned as much information as I could from this conversation, I asked to speak with his slave. He agreed and took me to the Fuck Room, where the boy was waiting and dropped into inspection position the instant he saw his master enter. Abdullah ordered him, up then added:

• I'm going to leave you two alone to get acquainted while I attend to some other matters. Then I'll come back and use this room for what it's intended for.

He left me alone with the suspect slave. My career as an undercover agent was about to begin.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE - TINKER, TAILOR, SLAVEBOY, SPY]