Chapter 3- Priscius

Priscius was at last revising his point of view, after having had the stern and very unpleasant sensation that he’d just been taken for the last of the fools.

It was a few days earlier, in the muggy morning sea mist laden with human effluvia and invaded by screams, that he had followed Batsu to the Armanth Cages Market. The capital of the Merchants’ Guild, an organization spread throughout the Seas of Separation, so powerful that it had literally bought itself its own city-state, was a pearl of progress and freedom among all Lossyan cities; a city with such modern mores that no citizen had, except following a trial for a serious crime, to fear one day being enslaved and branded with a linci. Few scholars and intellectuals dreaded the inquisition of the Council’s Ordinatorii, whose presence, imposed and unavoidable, was little more than representative and consultative; but Armanth was also the major hub of the slave trade in all the Seas of Separation. Slaves came from every corner of the known world: parked and then sold, trained, broken, cruelly and mercilessly educated; the most prestigious merchant houses had their most imposing Slave Gardens here, from which they were forcibly trained in all the arts of pleasing and entertaining, and destined to become animals to serve and give pleasure and prestige to their owners.

 

***

 

Armanth had been founded three centuries earlier. Initially a simple fishing village sheltering refugees fleeing the wars of the Eteocles and the persecutions of the Church in the north, the city had grown up as best it could on sandy islets lost in a marshy lagoon, relying solely on trade, welcoming more and more refugees fleeing the legions of Ordinatorii and their exactions; United Cities, Hemlaris, Terencha, the Ginnon, the plains of Eteocles, they came from all over to rebuild their lives in the Bay of Argas, sometimes from as far north as the Mares Saeparent. Freethinkers, intellectuals, scholars, apostates or simply poor wretches who had had the misfortune to be in the path of marching legions, they had no choice but to try and find a ship and cross the sea to Armanth. This difficult crossing was also the city-state’s best protection. The legions of the Church of the Council, under the banner of the Hegemony of Anqimenès, had concentrated on their crusade against the Eastern Empire of Hemlaris in a war that had set the entire known world ablaze, finally forgetting this remote and uninteresting refugee city in a corner of the Athémaïs. When Anqimenès finally woke up to find it had a new rival in size, power and political influence, the powerful Merchants’ Guild had already made it its capital; and Armanth exceeded one million inhabitants.

Only once, thirty years earlier, had the Hegemony attempted military action under Church orders against the city of the Merchants’ Guild. The crusade was hasty and ill-prepared, and ended in disaster. Alerted well in advance by its networks to the arrival of a disorganized armada – nothing is more effective than trade as a support for espionage, and the Merchants’ Guild abuses it -Armanth had hired the services of all the fleets neighboring the islands of the Seas of Separation, including the pirates of Imareth. Not a single Church galleon touched the coast of Athémaïs. Almost as a game, Armanth sent back the surviving Ordinatorii without asking for any ransom. But, except for a few priests and officials who were spared, not before they had all endured five years’ imprisonment and hard labor.

Armanth is now considered the beacon of modern civilization from the point of view of a large part of the Seas of Separation: there are more renowned colleges and universities here than anywhere else, where everyone can follow the lectures and debates of some of the world’s greatest minds. Even more astonishing, women teach science and literature here themselves. What’s more, they can divorce, work, trade, manage their own property and move around freely without the express consent of a male family member. To the delight of the Council of Peers, the city’s executive body and the heart of the Merchants’ Guild, aristocratic princesses from other cities, far more fussy about the precepts of the Council’s Dogmas, have even sought refuge here and sought asylum from the city’s authorities.

Over the course of four centuries, Armanth’s influence had spread to a number of neighboring city-states, trading with it around the Seas of Separation. It was as much considered the city of vices and dissolute morals as it was the haven of science and culture, the refuge of thinkers and geniuses; but it also carried, as if to contradict its reputation, the dubious prestige of also being the city of slave traders.

The reality is quite simple: after loss-metal, the mineral used to manufacture dynamos, impulse weapons and levitation engines, the second most sought-after commodity in all of Loss is not gold: it’s women. The city’s fortune is partly built on the slaves of its Cages Market and the immense sea and land traffic it generates. The irony of it all is striking: decadent Armanth, a city of culture, freedom and progress, with women honored, respected and recognized, remains so thanks in part to the enslavement of thousands of slaves.

 

***

 

“You’ll see, I’m giving you a present!”

Priscius stared doubtfully at his colleague and debtor. At that moment, Batsu was wearing his tiresome, eternal smile of a carpet salesman in search of suckers to con. The luxury slaver had his doubts about the gift, and he was no dummy. He was a man in the prime of life with the height, build and stoutness of a massive Nordic with Hegemonian looks, his round face eaten by a beard that wavered between blond and salt-and-pepper. His business had prospered for a time, and he was dressed to match his wealth and pretensions: an open, loose shirt of fine til, a kind of cotton common in the south, and an open jacket in warm, variegated colors, embellished with silver buttons, over loose, tan pants adorned with pieces of wrought leather. To complete his look, a heavy silk cloak in garish blue rested on his shoulder. The fact that it kept him rather warmer in the oppressive heat of the Cages Market was of far less importance to him than the clear display of his wealth and renown, especially at a time when his reputation was suffering from some nasty snags.

Batsu owed him a pleasure slave; this had been going on for some time, and Priscius suspected that this gift would not be worth enough to repay his colleague’s debt. The master-slave-owner had lost enough of his reputation of late to know that merchants like him would have no qualms about trying to cheat him. He’d racked up a string of bad trade investments – he’d have grudgingly admitted that it was partly his fault – and his last shipment had ended up trampled by a herd of longilas after a storm that had knocked two levitating ships ashore. Repaying the investors had nearly ruined him, and he had not helped matters by using every legal trick in the book to delay payment of his installments. This had cost him as much in reputation and credit as the fortune he still had to disburse, but he wasn’t a man to let the heavens play with his destiny without fighting against it; he simply had to keep face. He could rebuild his reputation.

“I hope this is worth what you owe me, Batsu. I want to drink and laugh with you tonight, not have to negotiate again.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll drink, laugh and you’ll be satisfied! Look, there she is, the redhead in the corner.”

Amidst the hustle and bustle of merchants, customers, foremen and slaves, in the suffocating summer heat that soon made one long for the early morning sea mists, Batsu made his way like a wild beast pushing aside the tall grass; a small beast, to be sure. The slaver had to use all his voice and his fat belly to compensate for his modest size and manage to split the crowd, not without having to respond regularly, with a rather overflowing imagination, to the swearing and invective of the other tradesmen and workers at work. Priscius followed in his wake, clearly more impressive; he was accompanied by one of his henchmen, bare-chested and with a patient expression on his face. Most people, seeing his luxurious attire and his bodyguard, preferred to let him pass cautiously.

The last cage on the left of Batsu’s enclosure held a prostrate young woman with pale skin and deep, orangey-red hair; seeing this color, one immediately thought of the most beautiful shades of autumn. Naked, as were virtually all the caged slaves in the market, she looked little more than a skinny kid. After the surprising and pleasant realization that Batsu had been right: she was indeed a redhead – good news, since redheads are the most sought-after and can fetch a high price – the slaver forced himself to hide his disappointment. Knowing Batsu’s methods, often brutal and without any consideration for his merchandise, Priscius was hardly optimistic about the state of health of the captive, who had been beaten and clearly left to starve.

“Kneel down!”

Batsu let out the order in a stentorian voice, causing all the girls in the surrounding cages to shacking. The young redhead reacted immediately, but gracelessly, her back arched, her head hanging miserably, hidden by the long veil of her hair mingled in knots. She looked like a broken animal. The slave trader jostled the cage to make her react again:

“Come on, stand up! Hands on your head, show yourself!”

Priscius watched the girl comply. She was weak and frail; of course, she didn’t have much shape left, starving as she was. He couldn’t have given her a precise age; she was hardly taller than a child, although it was obvious that she must already be almost an adult. Between fourteen and sixteen, at first glance, but she seemed rather pretty when he could see her face, which Batsu forcibly straightened, catching her chin with his dirty hand. The girl’s eyes, huge and a stunning jade green, were veiled and dulled by fear. There was, however, something unusual in her features; a crossbreeding akin to that of the Hemlaris Oriental half-bloods with the rare, unique beauty of dolls. Priscius had rarely come across one, let alone one with red hair and green eyes. In better condition, it would surely be very charming and would sell at a very high price.

Priscius took a closer look at the « gift » that was supposed to settle Batsu’s debt. With her red hair, green eyes and mixed-race features, and despite her general condition, it didn’t look so bad after all; but above all, he stopped to consider the tattoo on the captive’s right breast: a gold-and-green flower that closely resembled a Thuna orchid.

Everyone had heard of it. Years before, this merchant house specializing in the training of luxury slaves had disappeared in one of those frequent settlements of scores between master merchants where one bankruptcy, takeover, murder and sabotage follows another. The owners of Thuna House had met with disastrous fates, and the few survivors had scattered to other merchant guilds and kept a low profile. Since then, slave collectors have been snapping up women with these orchid tattoos. Priscius had never seen one so perfect in his memory.

He wondered what had led Batsu to pick up such a bargain. He said he’d been lucky to buy it from people who had no idea what it was worth. Priscius’s commercial mind began to estimate the price that could be made from such an opportunity, if it were properly educated.  She could sell for a fortune.

“Can you open the cage for me, Batsu, so I can take a closer look”

“Of course, it’s safe. She’s as docile as a lamb, she’s not going to cause you any trouble.”

But you still starved and beat her up for it, Priscius mused. There was clearly something wrong with his colleague’s story, and it was annoying; but the worry was that if Priscius questioned Batsu’s story and his words, it would quickly spread like a rumor. Six months ago, he might have blown him off, but now his own word was questionable and everyone was waiting for the slightest opportunity to discredit him completely. Without a reputation, a lossyan is worth little and his word nothing; this was no time for Priscius to put his on the line.

The slaver pulled the girl out of the cage and made her stand in front of him. She was barely below his shoulder, and stood there dejected and resigned. Priscius examined her from every angle, checking her teeth, her hair, her skin, like an expert in High Art. She bore strange, poorly-healed puncture marks on her arms, a few weeks old. In addition to her lacerated back, the flesh on her wrists and ankles was abraded by the use of irons and ropes. Priscius grumbled inwardly. Batsu had no respect for merchandise; there would be work to do to restore it; but that tattoo…

If it came from the former Thuna House, as he thought it might, this potential alone would ensure him a handsome premium on the work to be done. He couldn’t understand why Batsu had beaten her so brutally, if she’d already been trained. The most logical explanation was that she’d been one of the runaways when the House fell, that she’d relearned freedom and foolishly tried to resist capture.

Batsu interrupted the slaver’s thoughts, once again flashing his testing carpet-seller smile:

“I haven’t lied to you, have I?”

“No, indeed, » resumed Priscius, pushing the slave into the cage where she returned to hide from the two men. “I think we’re even.”

He uttered the last words without an ounce of feeling, putting aside his own reflections on what was true and what was false in this story. He’d have time to learn more later about the reality of his debtor’s claims, which he’d be sure to check out. In this business, everything was known more or less quickly, once you knew how hard to work to obtain the right information. So he let Batsu make his pitch, who jumped at the chance:

“A luxury slave! A half-breed redhead with green eyes, a rarity that only comes around once a year! You should thank me, I’m offering you some of the best merchandise I’ve got! Did you see that tattoo? You recognize Thuna’s orchid, don’t you? It’s worth ten times my debt if you train it right. I’m not paying you back, I’m giving you a princely gift! Your customers will want to pay you in loss-metal for it; so tell me you’re satisfied, because if you’re not, I don’t know how to please my friend!”

“I am, I am. You haven’t deceived me, Batsu, our debt is settled, and I won’t fail to speak of your generosity and loyalty in fulfilling your duty to your debtors and friends. I’ll send my men to bring her home, and I think we can celebrate tonight.”

Priscius finally allowed a smile to appear on his face, made stern by his thick beard, as the visit continued. He remained doubtful, but would not show it. Batsu must have guessed that his sales pitch and his story of a luxury slave didn’t hold water, even with his carpet salesman’s grand gestures. He might as well keep a straight face and make his colleague keep his, which would make it easier for the rest of the day to put up with him and the negotiations that were sure to follow.

 

***

Alterma rolled onto her side, dodging for the third time her opponent’s chasing steps and targeted attacks. She couldn’t regain the initiative and he wasn’t giving her the chance. His guard was too closed. From the ground, she tried to bring him down by sweeping him with her legs, taking advantage of the fact that he was advancing on her with the intention of immobilizing her: but it was no use, he anticipated all her blows and only had to take a step to the side. Only the sand of the gymnasium track had finally hit him.

“You think too much about your strikes!”

Jawaad’s scathing and annoyingly calm remark, as he towered over her after avoiding the sweep almost with disdain, had the desired effect.

“Oh yeah?! How about this”

The next second she was pouncing on him. The assault was as brutal as it was clumsy, but she managed to jostle the merchant as she tried to grab hold of him. Jawaad grinned briefly and, rolling onto her back, sent her accountant tumbling across the runway. She fell back heavily.

“Ouch!”

Jawaad straightened up and helped her to her feet.

“Now you weren’t thinking hard enough. Do it again!”

Alterma grumbled, spitting out a little sand and trying to clear it from her hair. Compared to the merchant-master, her stature made the struggle a little unequal. She was of rather modest stature for a lossyan and must have been little more than half Jawaad’s weight. Brunette, with tanned skin, she had a dark, flamboyant look on a racy face, with a pout that was always a little mocking. She was a pure athémaïs, whose smiles easily attracted the glances and lust of most men; but Jawaad appreciated her far more for her character and talents than for her notable beauty. Alterma was a scholar and mathematician. Born into the Seniati Armanthian aristocracy, she had, against her family’s advice, studied at university and, by the age of twenty-five, had already written two excellent works on the theories of bank accounting. Jawaad had not hesitated to take her into his service when the Seniati were trying to find a place for their daughter, hoping to marry her off to a good party.

Jawaad was stubbornly single, and Alterma’s main concern was her independence, which a well-paid job under the protection of a powerful Armanth merchant-master assured her. Her outspoken character, hard to disarm, was at least as sharp as the vivacity of her mind. The kind of soul Jawaad adored. For her third course in unarmed defense, she had once again traded in her rich dresses and neat toilets for baggy pants and a shapeless double-breasted shirt, all held together as tightly as possible by a wide scarf as a belt. Opposite her, Jawaad was bare-chested and, like her, had taken off his boots on the sand of the small, spartan private gymnasium, lit by window wells.

Impassive, except for the small smirk that regularly appeared when he was tutoring his pupil, he awaited her assault. Alterma launched herself, and the result was not much more glorious than the previous attempt. Nor was the next. Jawaad snapped his fingers to attract her attention, after helping her to her feet, and moved to her side.

“You see what I do and you understand how I move, when to try to grab me, when to strike; but your eyes tell me what you’re going to do.”

“Yes, but I have to look at you, don’t I?”

– No, it’s not me that matters.

Alterma pouted in puzzlement.

“I don’t understand, Jawaad; it’s a bit foggy, when you put it like that.”

Jawaad smirked. The young woman could have added « as usual », and he wouldn’t have been surprised. As he spoke to her, he repeated with calculated slowness the gestures of parries and combined attacks that she was, of course, observing.

“What are you looking at”

“Well, your arms, your movements.”

“That’s what’s important, isn’t it”

“Yes, it does. It’s true that I’m looking at you face to face; I’m staring at your face and your eyes. I suppose… in fact, you can tell from my eyes when I’m going to try something, can’t you?”

Jawaad opined.

“Don’t look at me, watch my movements. Don’t let me see your eyes.”

The master-merchant pivoted in the sand to take a few steps back, then waved his chin at Alterma. She took a deep breath, smiling confidently.

“Alright… I get it, we’re trying… so… no eye contact.”

Jawaad watched him stand on guard, as he had taught him. A spectator specialized in pugilism and martial arts might have recognized the Jemmaï stance; but the fighting art of the Jemmaï-he’jil was as little known as their people. He split abruptly, just long enough to throw a simple blow with the flat of his hand. Alterma dodged with a start, glaring at him immediately and regretting it the next moment. She paid for her hesitation with a slap, which the master-merchant had of course hold back. She protested:

“Ow! That hurts!”

“Don’t look at me, watch my movements!”

Alterma stepped back a little, trying to concentrate; she was enjoying the exercise as much as she was being assiduous.

“Wasn’t it you who said you don’t hit women?”

Jawaad nodded slightly in response, still throwing simple but deliberately precise and swift assaults. Alterma began to understand after three or four more blows. She no longer let her guard be diverted by her opponent’s unfathomable gaze, where she had no chance of anticipating his gestures. She held her head slightly tilted to one side, using her peripheral vision to catch the movements and focus solely on them. The joust took on added interest when she began to retaliate in turn and attempt assaults. The principle was simple: she had to be able to topple Jawaad and jump on him to mimic a kill. So far, she’d never managed it, but in a few minutes she’d progressed by leaps and bounds, proving herself an excellent student. Feints and dodges followed one another and Jawaad began to increase the rhythm of his assaults, forcing her to fight and react ever faster. Alterma was sweating, unaccustomed to the effort, but not letting go. She was launching a new riposte when a deep, thundering voice burst into the gym:

“I’d been told, but I didn’t believe it!”

Jawaad was briefly startled; Abba’s voice had something of a roar in it whenever he spoke loudly. Alterma was startled too, but didn’t disarm herself: the opportunity was too good. She swung around to grab the wide belt of her opponent’s kilt and give him an almost perfect lep trip, pushing him with all her weight.

Jawaad didn’t see the feint coming until it was too late, and sprawled her whole body in the sand, with Alterma straddling his belly, proud and victorious for the first time. There was a sort of blank, and Abba’s thunderous laugh punctuated the young pupil’s first victory over her teacher, who himself, tipping over to push her aside, let himself and Alterma laugh heartily. And it was very rare to hear Jawaad laugh.

Abba approached the training area, towering over the two wrestlers with his huge bulk, still shaking with thunderous hiccups of laughter that, in another setting, would have intimidated even a sturdy spadassin. Jawaad got up without haste, imitated by Alterma who couldn’t let go of his big smile of satisfaction. After his giggle, the colossus said:

“You shouldn’t encourage her to fight, Jawaad. She’s a woman!”

“And?”

“And what? This is no place for a woman, by the High Lords! You think a man’s going to marry her when he hears she fights like a ragman in her braies? And with her boss?”

Alterma protested, chin up:

“But it’s nobody’s business, as far as I know, that I train with Jawaad. It’s useful and good exercise!”

The merchant master shrugged his shoulders, staring at Abba in reply. The slaver grunted a blow in return:

“A woman should keep her place, especially such a brilliant scholar and intellectual. I don’t see what good it does her to know how to fight.”

Jawaad shrugged again, fetching himself a towel and nonchalantly saying:

“Not fighting; defending and exercising. She’s a good training partner.”

“Exactly, » added Alterma. “I don’t intend to become a swordswoman if that’s what you’re afraid of, Abba, but I don’t intend to feel like a helpless lamb either. It doesn’t hurt to know how to defend yourself!”

Jawaad smiled, amused, his back to the scene. Abba himself tried to grumble convincingly, but Alterma’s assurance – and he’d known the young woman and her character for some time – relaxed his almost bestial face, despite his efforts to make her feel that he was reproaching her for her antics.

“You two are a pair of pigheaded; I don’t know why I’m trying to argue! It’s not done to let a woman fight, that’s the way it is; and, Jawaad, why don’t you train with me?”

Alterma’s answer came before she could think of it:

“So he don’t end up broken into little pieces?”

And there was another burst of laughter from Abba and the young woman, interrupted by Jawaad, even though the joke – quite accurate by the way, Abba could easily break anyone without meaning to – had made him smile.

“You didn’t come into my gym to lecture me, did you?”

Abba nodded. Jawaad put on his boots and Alterma slipped away to the changing room adjoining the estate’s baths to freshen up and change, greeting both men with a smile.

“That’s right, » he confirmed, « your parcel arrived a moment ago. Amarrus Lokaï is in town, attending the next meeting of the Council of Peers; would you still like to thank him in person for his latest assassination attempt?”

“Of course I would. Anything else?”

“I think I’ve found an Earth girl. Green-eyed redhead; she was in bad shape when I saw her, though. It’ll be complicated to buy her right away; she’s going to be used to pay off a debt, so she belongs to Priscius Praxtor now. If you know him, you know he’s quite a pain.”

“I know him and I know Sonia, his educator, very well. Let’s leave it to her for a few weeks, she’ll get she back on her feet for me, and I’ll pay Priscius a visit when the time is right.”

Jawaad headed for the gym exit, where a few laughs could be heard, along with the happy barking of the estate’s dogs, flanked by Abba. Just before they passed through the door, Alterma shouted from the locker room:

“If you’re going to see Amarrus during the Council, I want to come with you!”

Abba sighed and glared at Jawaad. From his smile, he understood to his regret that the master merchant thought this was an excellent idea.

 

***

 

Priscius had had a few days to observe the tattooed slave. She had been branded with a linci without even really reacting, despite the traumatic aspect of the scarification to firmly anchor the symbiote to her thigh; she had hardly ever left her mute prostration, unless forced by a direct order. She’d clearly been screwed up, the training work had been botched in a hurry, and Priscius was certain that Batsu had given him a totally watered-down summary. If this girl had ever been trained as a pleasure slave, he’d have to do it all over again, given the damage he’d seen. All he could do right now was keep her in isolation.

In the meantime, Batsu had informed him, with too much enthusiasm for it to be honest, that there was another redheaded girl tattooed with Thuna’s orchid for sale. A strange coincidence, which made Priscius increasingly suspicious. He was beginning to wonder whether all this had not been organized between his rivals – and there was no shortage of them – to make him lose face completely and offer themselves the pleasure of fool him; but he had taken the risk and dropped an already substantial sum for the second captive. He had recently had problems renewing his stock of slaves to educate in his gardens and clearly suspected a plot involving his own regular suppliers. If this was the case, the only possible response would be to make these two girls the best educated slaves his talent allowed him to forge, and to grit his teeth over the rumors that would fly in the meantime.

He had to admit he’d prefer the version of runaway slaves from a vanished House. He might be able to find a way to spread the rumor around, after all, but not before making sure that it would be worth his while to train the redhead, which for the moment seemed to be in total ruins, and to see what the next shipment would look like.

The next day, he received his parcel in person, accompanied by the feline and licentious Sonia, his educator. Dressed only in her slave collar, silver jewels including the nipple rings that marked her Languiren nature, and a black silk loincloth barely wider than a belt, she, as usual, used all the sensuality of her gestures, the subtlety of glances and her perfect, almost naked body to drive the slaver’s henchmen mad. Her self-assurance and pride stood out against the chained captives, most of whom wept and moaned pitifully; and of course her game worked perfectly.

Sonia smiled a perverse smile of delight when one of the handlers missed the edge of the quay by looking at her too much, and huffed his way out of an involuntary dip in the nauseating harbor water, to the laughter of his colleagues. Priscius didn’t raise an eyebrow. You don’t punish a slave for being a slave; and nobody would, not even the victim, who was perfectly aware of having been manipulated. You don’t anger the boss.

The slaver looked mainly at his goods unloaded at the port, doubtful. At the sight of the tattooed girl who, despite her shackles, was still struggling furiously and tugging at the ropes like a devil, Priscius held back an annoyed grunt. He’d been played for a fool, and Batsu and his colleagues were probably still howling with laughter.

The young woman who was fiercely resisting the men dragging her towards Priscius, despite the screams and whip snaps, was perhaps in her early twenties. She hadn’t yet been branded with a linci, and she showed all the traits of a barbarian capable of biting and striking. Of average height, she was beautiful and slender, her body muscular and svelte, her hair a dark red turning to auburn with almost black shadows; a superb head of hair that would only need a little care to become a perfect mane. Her brown eyes with their green highlights were striking against her very fair skin. In her own way, she had a body that could be compared to that of Priscius’s educator. She must surely have been graceful, but at the moment she looked more like a block of rough stone than a sculptural statue. She’d never been collared, whipped or trained; that much was obvious. Everything had to be done, and the slaver no longer had the slightest doubt that the men who had found this woman wandering naked on the beaches to the west of Armanth, and the dealers who had transferred her here, knew it perfectly well.

Priscius restrained himself from protesting at the evil trick being played on him, before smiling as he approached the young woman who was glaring at him. A smile that Sonia caught sight of and that sent a delicious shiver of pleasure down the spine of the beautiful, feline slave. The captive, too, was an Imareth-like half-breed with fine, attractive and unusual features. She resembled the daughter Batsu had given her and sported the exact same, equally perfect orchid flower tattoo.

Everyone had seen this tattoo; Priscius had no doubt that the rumor had spread. If he could turn them into perfect slaves, he’d be able to arrange for the right people to admire these girls at work; and he could even use the rumors spread over the last few weeks, which would quickly die down but not be forgotten, to burnish his image… All that remained then was to get the training perfectly right, which he knew would clearly start from scratch.

“I’m counting on you, Sonia. You’ll be responsible for their progress.”

The magnificent trainer, with jet-black hair and skin as coppery as perfect silk, nodded. Her almost predatory gaze, skilfully lowered just enough to show respect, burned with an almost sinister blue fire. Her voice breathed two words as if magic had been involved. Pronounced like that, half the males who would have heard her would have had only one idea in mind: to take her, immediately and on the spot. And even Priscius, who’d been armored for ages, still let himself be fooled, which he didn’t like and made her pay for.

“Yes, master.”