A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (31 page)

On the last Wednesday of the month, they came home to a new issue of
Pals
, and thus a new
Drake’s Progress
. Henry could not hide his excitement.

“You’ll read it to me, won’t you?” he asked. “You’ll do the voices?”

Martin laughed. “Of course, Sir. I’ll do whatever you like.”

Last month, they’d left Theo and George climbing down from the mizzenmast in the midst of a terrible storm, cutlasses drawn, preparing to fight the enraged kraken that had destroyed a pirate ship and was threatening to wreck the
Dauntless
.

Theo and George held onto one another as they clambered down onto the heaving deck and surveyed the scene before them. Through needles of driving rain, Theo saw the kraken’s tentacles smash against the foredeck of the
Dauntless
and watched helplessly as his men slipped and slid, some falling overboard in their efforts to avoid the monster’s flailings. The
Dauntless
must be protected at all costs, or all lives would be forfeit.

“Follow me!” Martin made Theo sound commanding and noble, and it was easy to believe George would obey. One of the kraken’s huge tentacles was wrapped amidships, spanning the entire deck, and they attacked this ghastly appendage with vigor, lashing at it with their cutlasses. The entire ship tilted as the kraken reacted in fury and pain, and they were knocked off their feet and might well have both gone overboard if George hadn’t sheathed his cutlass, grabbed a dangling rope, and caught Theo’s wrist in a death grip.

“That was good luck,” Henry said, amused by the improbability.

His sword hand free, Theo continued to hack away at the kraken, which stubbornly refused to let go of the
Dauntless
until at last Theo had severed its massive limb. The monster withdrew with a terrible shriek, descending back into the depths in a roiling, bloody cloud.

Martin frowned at the page. “Do you know, Sir? Do krakens or, rather, squid…do they make noises?”

“Huh.” Henry didn’t know. “They might, I guess?” It seemed fitting for a sea monster to make some sort of noise, whether it was realistic or not.

As the monster sank back towards hell, the storm abated. The winds calmed and the black clouds dissipated and all that remained of the maelstrom was a misty rain. The crew of the
Dauntless
immediately set about putting the ship in order, making note of the damages so they might report them to Theo. The enormous tentacle remained draped across the deck, seeping dark blood. A dozen able-bodied seaman banded together and heaved the huge limb overboard with a great splash.

The heroes stood on the deck, breathing hard, chests heaving, covered in gore.

“Is any of that blood yours?” Martin asked in his Theo voice.

“I don’t think so, Sir,” he answered in George’s voice. “I think it’s all kraken blood, Sir.”

“I need to be sure,” Martin-as-Theo insisted. And while the rest of the crew began the salvage effort, bringing surviving men and pirate plunder on board, Theo took George below to his cabin. Theo took off his own bloody shirt before examining George and wiping all the blood off of George’s bare chest and shoulders. Henry supposed it was logical that Theo would be more comfortable without his gore-encrusted shirt, but he liked to think Theo also wanted there to be an opportunity for his own bare skin to press against his slave’s.

As he cleaned George’s back, Theo lingered over his old whipping scars with a pensive expression.

“Do these scars still pain you?” Martin-as-Theo asked.

Martin-as-George was adamant that they did not. “Not at all, Sir. They’re a reminder of the day when I became your slave, Sir,” he said. “The most important day of my life.”

“And mine, as well,” affirmed Martin-as-Theo. “It was the start of my greatest adventure.”

This exchange seemed practically akin to marriage vows and Henry found it thrilling beyond measure. To have it read by Martin was nearly too much for him. He was at pains to hide his excitement, to keep his face arranged in a merely interested expression.

After they were clean, Theo and George returned to the deck, where the bosun, Boot, reported on the damage to the ship. Thankfully, the
Dauntless
had been battered but not too badly damaged. The figurehead—Lady Justice with a gilded scale—had been broken off, sections of railings were missing, and several sails were torn, but the ship remained seaworthy. It was agreed, however, that they should find a friendly port where they might see to repairs and replenish food supplies.

Within hours of the defeat of the kraken, the
Dauntless
sailed for the nearest port with a few new crew members, including Dooley, introduced in the last issue, who seemingly would have a larger role to play in future installments. As they sailed into the harbor, George looked astern and saw on the horizon a black ship, ominous and foreboding.

“That’ll be Dr. DeSade,” Henry said confidently. “It’s about time for a DeSade story.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Sir.” It was the first time Martin had called him ‘Sir’ since starting the reading. Henry had rather liked not hearing the honorific; it made it more like he and Martin were real friends.

Henry did not say anything to Martin, of course, about Theo and George’s impassioned exchange, but he thought about it frequently over the next few days, during boring times in the school day and late at night in the dark. Henry wasn’t a particularly worldly boy, but, even so, he was very sure it wasn’t usual for men to talk to one another the way Theo and George did. Louis, for instance, was never going to tell Henry that the happiest day of his life had been the one on which they’d met—nor did Henry want him to. Theo and George’s words were romantic and bold, suggesting an adventure entirely different from that usually promoted in boys’ magazines as being wholesome and appropriately masculine.

Henry could not help thinking of himself and Martin in the Theo and George roles, wiping blood off of Martin’s smooth white chest and unscarred back, touching him at leisure, taking care of him. He did not want Martin hurt, of course, but only wanted the opportunity to comfort him and be close, and regretted that they were several years too old to plausibly play-act Theo and George scenes.

His bedtimes, already uncomfortable and strained thanks to Martin’s relentless efforts to be of use, became even more so now that he was seeing Martin through this filter, kraken blood and caresses. As was his pattern, Martin asked each night if he might be of use, and Henry always said no, and was plagued with thoughts not just of what Martin might do to him, but what he might do to Martin in return, what he might do with all the tenderness he wished to express.

On Saturday, Louis called in high spirits asking Henry to come over for an impromptu party. James was home for the weekend, having come down to the city on the train with a large group of his college friends. Henry was a little apprehensive, having heard about James’ wild parties for years now, but it was the middle of the afternoon and surely no one would get up to too much trouble during daylight hours. Henry walked over with Martin and Patrick let them in. The Briggs home was full of the energy and bravado of young men. They were led back to the game room and absorbed into the crowd, Henry a little overwhelmed by the closeness and din but doing his best not to show it. There was a cloud of tobacco smoke swirling overhead and everyone was shouting to be heard.

Peter’s head popped up between tweed-jacketed shoulders, all the laughing young men holding drinks. “Sir!” he called. “Mr. Blackwell, Sir!”

Martin saw him first and touched Henry’s elbow. “Peter’s over there, Sir.”

Peter said, “I’ll just be getting Mr. Briggs, Sir,” and disappeared into the throng. The crowd seemed to be made of equal parts strangers and James’ old friends from here in the city. Henry recognized many of the locals but was too shy to reintroduce himself; the older boys had always intimidated him, and even their slaves seemed enviably sophisticated. He stopped near the wall just inside the door, reluctant to go further without a guide.

“Do you want me to get you a drink, Sir?” Martin asked, looking around the room. “I think you could have one if you wanted.”

Henry shook his head. “No, I’m all right.” The idea of drinking made him nervous. He began to sweat a little.

Louis came to find them within minutes, though it seemed much longer to Henry. “What are you doing, old chap?” Louis said in a loud voice as he clapped Henry on the back. He was very red in the face and his movements were loose and enthusiastic. “Where’s your drink? You have to have a drink!” He took Henry by the wrist and dragged him across the room and through the middle of half a dozen conversations, to much cheerful protest from the college boys. Peter and Martin followed them, their progress more apologetic and deferential.

Joseph stood by the game room sideboard next to a number of open liquor bottles, agitating a cocktail shaker. When he saw Henry, he smiled, and said, “Hello, Sir.”

“Henry needs a cocktail,” Louis said, slurring a little. “Whatever it is that I’m drinking, he needs the same.” He turned to Henry, grinning sloppily, and said, “I’ve been drinking these since lunch and recommend them
highly
.”

Joseph said, “It just so happens, Sir, that I’ve a fresh drink right here.” He poured the shaker’s contents into a glass, added a dash of port, grated nutmeg over the top, and handed the result to Henry.

“Go on!” Louis urged. “Drink!”

Henry drank. It went down with an unpleasant burn that transformed almost magically into a diffuse warmth in his chest and belly. He rather liked it. “What is this?”

“Gin sangaree, Sir,” Joseph told him. “Please enjoy it.”

Louis turned to Peter and Martin. “Now you two need to drink.”

“Should we, Sir?” Martin asked.

Louis made a wide, expansive gesture with his arm. “Why not? Everyone else’s slaves are drinking. Go.” He shooed them off.

“Where is James?” Henry asked, scanning the crowd. It had been a long time since he had seen James’ handsome face and he wondered if James would seem quite so fine now that he had Martin to look at.

“Over here somewhere,” Louis said distractedly, taking Henry by the arm and leading him away from the bar. “We’ll find him. Say, all of these fellows are a lot of fun, Henry!”

“Where are your parents?” The Briggs adults were permissive, to be sure, but Henry could not imagine they would approve of so much drinking and smoking, especially by and around the younger family members.

“Away for the weekend. James is in charge here,” Louis said blithely. “Poor Annie is hiding upstairs with the little ones.”

Considering James’ history, it was amazing to Henry that Mr. and Mrs. Briggs would trust him to look after a brick. To entrust him with the lives of his younger siblings seemed most foolhardy. But then again, James was beloved. People wanted to like him, and surely his parents were no less susceptible to his charms than were strangers.

James could be found sitting on a corner of the billiards table, getting in the way of a game, holding aloft a cigarette and a brandy snifter. He was regaling his friends with a story that seemed to be about a whorehouse visit, but he left off when he saw his brother and Henry approaching.

He hailed them—“Louis! Henry!”—and toasted them with a raised glass. Addressing himself to Henry, he said, “So, where’s your fancy slave, young man?”

Henry blushed. “Martin?”

“I’ve heard how much your father paid for him. I want to see what he got for his money.”

Henry wished people would stop remarking on Martin’s price, and he wished Louis hadn’t thought it significant enough to relate to his brother. “He’s here,” Henry offered with a vague flap of his hand. He glared at Louis, but Louis was not in a mood to notice such things.

“He’s getting a drink,” Louis added. “Him and Peter.”

“Getting your slaves drunk,” James mused. “You’ll feel right at home when you get to college!” The young men gathered around all laughed and raised their glasses to drunkenness and college. The man standing next to Henry offered him a cigarette which Henry, startled, took reflexively but then did not know what to do with. He slipped it into his breast pocket and took a large gulp of his drink.

The college boys talked of friends, people neither Louis nor Henry knew, and their studies. James did not seem to intend to finish the story Henry and Louis had interrupted, and Henry wondered if that was because James visited so many whorehouses that stories about them weren’t remarkable or rare. He was, Henry noted, still rakish and handsome and somewhat terrifying, a chaotic force, but now, in his presence, Henry no longer yearned for him and was relieved.

“Say, James,” Louis said, sloshing his drink on his jacket. “Tell Henry about whatshisname, the one who got caught.” He turned to Henry, his expression avid. “Listen to this, Henry!”

James asked, “You mean Budley? That story?”

“Yeah. That guy,” Louis confirmed with a nod.

“All right then,” James said with an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. “Even though I
already
told it, I’ll tell it again, just for Henry.”