"Where ye off to, Red?" one of the sailors asked as he saw Trosyn carrying an empty bucket through a narrow passage in the berth deck. Trosyn gave him a passing glance as she walked around him.

"Top deck," she answered quickly. His hand went out, barring her from moving past him.

"I'm sure it can wait. Been seein' ye leavin' the gents' rooms a'night." the sailor remarked. Trosyn looked up at him with an arched eyebrow.

"And?" Trosyn asked, setting down the pail and crossing her arms.

"We're told ta leave you 'lone. S'fair, don't want men fightin' over a scrap o' meat," the scarred sailor remarked, keeping his hairy, tanned arm in her path. "But what they don't know..." The sailor teetered and Trosyn could smell the rum on his breath.

"Well, I wouldn't want to be the one to disobey Captain Galli," Trosyn said firmly, keeping eye contact with the man. She picked up her pail and ducked under his arm. He laughed, and at first Trosyn thought his bark was worse than his bite. That was until a firm hand gripped her shoulder, a thumb digging into the muscle before spinning her around to face him. Trosyn didn't wait to see what his next action would be, and she instinctively swung the pail to clout his face. This broke his hold on her and he staggered back in surprise, cussing vibrantly.

Trosyn began rushing away when she heard hands clapping. Baldovo had entered onto the scene, stating his approval. The sailor who had accosted her had recovered his senses, and gave a murderous gaze towards Trosyn, and then Baldovo.

"We'd better go," Trosyn said quietly, tugging on Baldovo's loose fit top.

"Right with you," Baldovo agreed hastily. Both turned to leave, but three sailors barred their path.

"We've had enough o' yer high'n'mighties. No one takes a shot like that at me mate 'n gets away with it," said a lean, dog-faced sailor. Baldovo lifted his chin and stuck out his chest. It was not an impressive display and Trosyn tugged again at his shirt, shaking her head. Baldovo breathed in deeply, but that only caused his lungs to rattle and he broke into a coughing fit. Trosyn put a hand on his shoulder, and the other sailors laughed at his frailty.

"Come now, we can be civil about this!" Baldovo said when he was able to speak again. "It's just a misunderstanding. You wouldn't want an incident, especially with some of you still recovering," Baldovo said, his voice occasionally croaking from his own weakened state. "And you wouldn't strike a sickly old man and a lady."

"Oh yeah? You think that?" The sailor who took the hit to the face had come up behind Trosyn and Baldovo, wiping blood from under his nose. "Rule of the sea, blood means blood."

Trosyn was scrappy for a woman in her thirties, but she and a barely recovered man past his prime were no match for the four sailors. It wasn't a fair fight by any stretch of the imagination, and Trosyn only got in a few solid hits before she was on the ground, covering her head as a boot kicked her square in the back. She could hear Baldovo cry out and grunt in pain, another hit met her on her shoulder. Trosyn's eyes shot open when her hair was yanked. While the sailor wound up to backhand her, he was abruptly pulled off of her.

Colto had entered the brawl. Although Colto was also outmatched, he managed to stay standing long enough for the chief mate to intervene. From chaos to order, Mici quickly had the sailors and Colto lined up against the wall, while Trosyn and Baldovo were helped up by a shaken Volente, who presumably had ran and got the chief mate.

"Who started this?" Mr. Mici demanded. No one responded. They just looked down, eyes averted. Mr. Mici slowly walked up and down the row of battered crew. "Well?"

"If I may..." Baldovo tried to speak, but was overcome with a coughing fit. He moved his hand from his lips, seeing the bright red fluid on his fingers.

"Take him to Hern. Take both of them to Hern," Mici said sternly. Trosyn did not need to be told twice. Reflexively, her hand went to her abdomen, where it stayed, cradling her gut the whole walk to the stretch of canvas which constituted as the surgeon's quarters. Baldovo and Trosyn exchanged glances before pulling open the flap.

----------------------------------------

Later that evening Baldovo was having a laugh; even Colto was grinning as the three of the men passed a flask between them. When it reached Trosyn, she put up her hand, passing up on the offered brandy. "I'm sure those sailors are hurting more in their pride than anything, having been knocked about by a learn-ed gent!" Baldovo prattled before taking a swig. He began coughing wretchedly and Trosyn looked up guardedly, watching him carefully.

"I guess Red is going to have a new meaning," Volente chimed in, seeming timidly proud of Trosyn having held her own. At least, she reportedly did with Baldovo's version of events. Trosyn just remembered lying on the ground, being kicked, and hearing Baldovo whimpering beside her. But she did not care to correct him. She just watched to make sure he did not relapse after his ordeal.

"That she did! Smacked Gold-tooth Jimmi in the face, bloodying his nose. I told you, Trosyn can fight her own battles." Trosyn gripped her hands into fists. She took in a deep breath and forced on a smile, but her hand was again cradling her abdomen.

"Not when it's four on one," came Colto's brassy voice.

Baldovo looked up at him, passing the flask to him. He took a hearty swig, well aware he earned the indulgence. "Four against two!"

"You dropped before Red," Colto reminded him, putting Baldovo in his place, taking another drink.

"It's good I got Mr. Mici. Colto might have crippled someone," Volente remarked, admiring his fellow scientist's prowess, albeit with a taint of envy.

"Or killed. Then we'd have a real problem on our hands! Ha... ho... oh..." Baldovo said lightly as he leaned against Volente, who he was sitting next to. Volente's eyebrows went high and pushed together, seeming a bit unsure what to do. After his hands fluttered in confusion, he tentatively placed an arm around Baldovo, looking at Colto and Trosyn pleadingly.

Trosyn rose and walked over, sitting on the cot on the other side of Baldovo. She then gently pulled him to her side so he laid his head in her lap. Volente seemed relieved to be from under Baldovo's weight, but consternation worked its way into his features as he stared at Baldovo's coveted pillow. Baldovo, his eyes closed, reached out, grabbing to try and take hold of the flask. Trosyn gingerly snatched it away from him. "I think that's enough."

Baldovo grumbled a mild protest, but Trosyn just ran her hand through his tight, salt and pepper curls. Volente watched this with a frown that made his chin look even more pointed. He had the flask shoved at his chest, and he took it from Trosyn. "But are you really alright?" Volente asked.

"Just bruised," Trosyn responded. "I've been through much worse."

"Ah... yes... you mentioned Vormind did... horrible things to you," Volente muttered. Trosyn looked over at him and sighed, then nodded.

"Of which we will not speak. I have a feeling the Captain is going to have words with me tomorrow," Trosyn predicted to change the topic.

"Why you?"

"For all intents and purposes, I started that fight," Trosyn said.

"Nonsense..." Baldovo said tiredly. "I saw... it all... he grabbed you first."

Colto's face grew very grave at the mention of the sailor touching Trosyn. Trosyn watched this, tilting her head. Colto could be cold and sometimes seemed to disapprove of her. But he was also very protective. Was it just that he was that way towards all women, whether he cared for them as individuals or not?

"In light of what happened... if you'd rather not tell stories tonight and go to bed, we'd understand," Volente said, placing his hands on his lap, rubbing his sweaty palms along his thighs.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

"Ah, I had not thought of telling stories tonight. But now, I think I will. I was tired, but all this merriment has given me a second wind," Trosyn said with a faint smile.

"Oh, well, then, let me get my writing supplies!" Volente said, springing to his feet and shuffling around the desk.

I was in Sintol's care for a day or two longer, I think. Then Sir Benold came, and he was in high dudgeon. Sintol had taken to dining with me, which Sir Benold never did. And when Sintol's housekeeper announced Benold had arrived, there wasn't any time before his shouting could be heard and he stormed into the dining room. He stared, shocked at seeing me there. His eyes narrowed and he looked very suspicious once his surprise had faded.

"Karm Sintol! Return her immediately!" I remember him saying, lacking all refinement he had cultivated. He sounded like a petulant child whose toy had been taken away. Sintol just smiled at his antics, and I just stood up and excused myself. After all, I was property, and did not have a say in the debate over my ownership.

Although I left the dining room, I sat myself in the adjoining parlour, and their voices were raised enough that I heard Sir Benold berate Sintol for forging his signature. I was able to gather that Sir Benold had not alerted the authorities after all, nor did he send word for me to be collected. That was all Sintol's doing. I should have known, and reprimanded myself for thinking that Benold lacked the honour to tell me to my face if he would send me away.

It sounded as though this sort of breach of trust was not common between the two. I know Sintol was not to be trusted, but Benold always held firm that they could trust one another. It did not seem to be the case anymore. And somehow I felt as though I were at the source of some of the discord between them. But that may have been my own vanity. I did have some, though I did my best to suppress it.

The two men bickered for some considerable time. But Sintol eventually wore my master down into believing he had done him a favour, by getting my wildflower status on the books, and as reported, but then created necessary delays. This way if I was ever discovered later, no one could accuse him of having kept me a secret. Sintol's flagrant abuse of bureaucracy was to my advantage, and vastly to my preference to directly illegal and underhanded dealings. But I knew the results would not be benign. Sir Benold now owed him, and Sintol still was trying to push him to support entering negotiations with the Eye. Sir Benold was cornered into agreeing to inviting a representative of them to his estate for a meeting, but he refused to agree to more.

I had a bad feeling about it, and being the bargaining chip used against my Master. Once they had a few drinks to make up, Sir Benold stormed into where I was calmly waiting in the parlour, and with very little delicacy grabbed me by the wrist and led me out to his carriage. I remember the way he gave one last look at his associate, no, friend's townhouse before climbing into the carriage beside me.

Benold waited until we were on the road before he quietly murmured an apology. He then looked me in the eye, anxiety etched on his brow. "Did he treat you well?" I assured him I was fine, and there was nothing lacking in his care of me. That seemed to satisfy Benold, although he seemed still apprehensive. The rest of the ride home was silent. We had not spoken since he kissed me. We had not even laid eyes upon each other. The silence was well deserved.

As soon as I was home I was put back to work as if nothing had happened. I wanted to talk to Sir Benold, but he preferred to just slip into denial. My frustrations grew daily. I put it into my work and became an unholy force to dust and grime. Mrs. Gray was at her wits end finding work for me. But I could not keep up the fervor, as I had been sacrificing sleep and eating little during this time. Nothing was said about this either.

With the fear of Sintol knowing too much about me, with the fear of the homeland collecting me for tests, I could not remain idle any longer. I had never approached my master when I was not explicitly summoned. But I'd had enough.

I rapped sharply on his door. I received no answer. I tried the handle. It was locked. I knocked louder and called his name. Eventually, his door came open, and he stared down at me, in his dressing gown, and hair, which was usually tied back, unbound. "Did Mrs. Gray not tell you I don't want to be disturbed?" he chided.

"She did. But I want to disturb you." I remember saying, causing his brow to wrinkle. I remember his hands were on either side of his doorframe and they gripped a bit tighter before relaxing and he looked away. I could tell he was on the verge of telling me to leave, but I spoke hastily. "We need to talk."

Benold looked over his shoulder into his bedchamber, and then he shook his head. "Into my study," he said. He was much too proper, even as a man who kissed his vulnerable slave, to ever let me into his room. Even though there was no one in the hall to observe such goings on.

So there we were, in his private study again. It seemed a fitting place to discuss the unmentionable. But before I could even speak, he raised his hand to silence me.

"I should apologise for my behaviour. It was inappropriate and ungentlemanly," he began. And I knew I was in for a long lecture on the virtues of a man of his standing, and even as he intended to apologise and point out his flaw, it would be quickly covered by how he envisioned himself. And that was the pinnacle of right and proper. Nevermind he stole, razed, and killed during the war. Nevermind some of the people he killed were civilians and innocents. Nevermind he kept company with a swindler, an instigator, and a sadist. He was a perfect gentleman.

I listened for a while as he laid it on thick, but then I interrupted him, which startled him. I almost never interrupted him. I told him that he didn't need to say more. I then told him it was unbecoming for him to even apologise to me, as much as I appreciated it. This caused him to pause and puzzle for a while, trying to find a way to salvage his position as my master, my position as slave, but also treat me with the respect he felt I, as an individual, was owed. It wasn't easy for him to reconcile all the roles we had played in each other's lives.

"I can't be a house slave and a lady. You can't respect me with one hand, and put me in my place with the other," I told him. "Choose what I am, and stick with it."

This left him silent for a while. He paced. He muttered. He gave me all sorts of irritated and fretful glances. He had said he missed my frankness. Well I was giving it back, and I was beginning to believe he didn't miss it quite so much as he thought. "Well then, you need another promotion, from house slave to... to..." I remember him floundering. I don't know why I said what I did. When it first came out of my mouth, it really was meant as a joke. But after it had, well, I began to think about it carefully. The idea would have upset me just days prior. But my drive to survive and stop playing a passive role in my fate was rearing its head.

So I helpfully suggested, "Concubine."

He snapped his fingers and started to repeat the word, then stopped before the last syllable, staring at me, absolutely mortified. He uttered that he did not need a concubine, he did not need his associates KNOWING he had a concubine, or the prattling of the household staff about having a concubine. Concubines were for nobility, and at the moment, he was just a Governor. He had lost his claim to nobility after the royals, and thus the noble classes, were smashed by the revolution.

I asked him if there were any laws forbidding concubines. He sheepishly admitted there were some men who had forced their slaves to do fertility rituals and treated them like lesser wives, since the war had taken such a toll, but most of them already had wives. Having a concubine and no wife was simply absurd. How could one take a secondary wife without a primary wife? He then quietly added that he did not want anyone to see me in that way.

I told him to look around. Everyone already saw me in that way. Gossip kept circulating from the moment I was taken off the fields about what sort of relationship we had. And it was rarely seen as purely professional. He demanded to know who spread those rumours, and I told him who was not the point. I also told him that Vormind had encouraged and expected this sort of behaviour on my part. Sintol was even hinting at it.

He was not pleased when I pointed all of this out. He'd been blithely unaware, though I think through some concerted effort on his part to not see what everyone else was seeing. I told him that taking me as a concubine wouldn't create scandal, it would normalise the concept and soon the gossip would dry up. What we did, or didn't do, was no one's business and left to their imaginations.

That was when he stared at me long and hard. The haughtiness left his tone and he asked me, "So you just want the appearance of the position, not the actual duties..."

He was clearly disappointed, despite the fact he was resisting the notion. Then I pushed matters a little too far, reminding him that he was the one who kissed me. He was irritated, since he'd just made a spectacular apology for doing so. I told him the truth was out, and he needed to face it.

That was when, in a quiet, sullen voice, he told me to leave immediately. I did not protest. I did not apologise. I simply obeyed and left his study. You may all be thinking I handled that very clumsily, especially as someone who claimed to be trained in the art of seduction. I said I was trained, I never said I was good at it. Well, I was adequate at it. But it was easier to seduce strangers. And my few missions which relied on it never lasted long before the primary objective was secured. And I, myself, was still unsure what I wanted.

Trosyn looked down at Baldovo, who had fallen asleep in her lap. Volente had been frequently looking over his shoulder at them sharply, only to turn and write furiously to keep up his shorthand notes of Trosyn's story. "I'm losing feeling in my legs... so I think that's a good place to stop."

"Oh... I'll help get him up," Volente said, nearly upsetting his inkpot with the speed at which he stood. His hand went out, steadying the wobbling jar, fingers again stained with ink.

Trosyn gently patted Baldovo's cheeks until he blinked. "Huh...? Oh... ow..." his hands went to his ribs, which had been bruised badly in the fight. But like so many injuries, they took their time to be felt.

Colto stood up while Volente was still trying to stop from making a mess. He walked over, taking Baldovo's arm, and steadied the weakened scientist until he was up on his feet. Volente saw this and frowned slightly, but then shrugged as he slowed down in clearing his things.

Colto paused in the doorway and looked back at Trosyn, who staggered to her feet, legs wobbly and prickly. Volente quickly put out a hand to steady her. "Red," Colto said. She looked up at him curiously. "Be more careful."

"Psssssssshhhhhhh she's got us..." Baldovo slurred. Colto shook his head and helped Baldovo back to his room.

"Will you need help? You are looking unsteady, uh... is it alright if I call you Trosyn?" Volente asked.

"Call me whatever you prefer, Volente," Trosyn responded, slinging her arm about Volente's shoulders. He smiled gently and walked with her out of the room.

"It sounds like Benold really didn't know how to talk about his feelings," Volente remarked. Trosyn nodded to this observation. "But I hope you realise, I think, in just about any culture, men just aren't as open with them as women. We prefer to just show people how we feel."

"I know, Volente, I know," Trosyn said. "But actions can mean so many different things to so many different people."

"So can words," Volente observed. Trosyn was silent for a moment as they walked. After thinking that over, she nodded again.

"Maybe, then, it's best to rely on both. And make sure our words and actions match," Trosyn said after some deliberation.

"Maybe."