The city was a lively place. Specks of dirt and foul-smelling mist hung in the air. Money jangled in pockets and glinted in the sunlight as a million silver coins passed between a thousand hands. The dirt streets had been either packed down into clay, or else churned into a slurry by day-old rainwater and wagon wheels. Buildings rose up to ten times the height of a woman, with well-polished wooden catwalks running between them, several levels off the ground. On these paths, women of wealth and power strutted over the roads, followed closely by their richly decorated husbands. Above them, great colorful birds perched on rooftops, picking at each other, tending to nests or simply staring as if in awe at the woman-made jungle that surrounded them.
To Arjani, this was home. She dodged carts and ducked around porters carrying heaping baskets on their heads. When the beggar children swarmed around her legs, claiming to be motherless and destitute, she sent each one way with a one-piece coin each.
But the object of Arjani's errand was not in the central city. On the outskirts, where the wooden houses ended and the thick rainforest began, a beaten path that wound through the jungle to the river port a few miles off. Where this path met the city, a crowd gathered before a hastily set-up wooden stage. Workwomen of all races bustled about the stage, setting up curtains, laying down rugs and muscling wheeled cages into place. Through the cage bars, Arjani caught tantalizing glimpses of their cargo: young men, taken from all over the world, groomed and trained to please.
Arjani felt inside her pocket, her fingers meeting the cold, smooth faces of her coins. After completing her apprenticeship to the ivory-worker and becoming a full master craftswoman, Arjani had been saving up to buy a man for her home. Now, three years later, she had enough.
Inching her way through the hot, eager crowd, she reached the middle, where she could stand on the tips of her toes and see the stage.
From behind the thick blue curtains, a woman leaped out onto the boards. Her skin was white- clearly, she was from far away- and her shoulders were decked in furs that looked much too hot for this climate. Wooden beads hung in braided bands round her neck, framing a wickedly smiling face draped in messy blond hair.
"Ladies, welcome!" thundered the white woman.
The crowd roared with applause. The white woman had flattered them; very few were true ladies. Some were commoners with money to spare, like Arjani. Others were rich travelers, here to satisfy their curiosity more than their desires. Most were priestesses who had come to skirt around the clergy's old taboo against taking husbands- slaves, after all, could not marry.
The white woman swept her hand out in front of her, bellowing, "We humble traders have searched far and wide to bring you the finest young men in the world! First, from across the Whaler's Sea comes a rare specimen from the island of Fulzora. He was once the son of a sugar baroness, wealthy beyond imagination!" She paused, and that cruel smile reappeared on her lips. "But rich families, too, can fall on hard times. Today, he'll be your guide to the treasures we have in store for you. Ladies, please welcome the Fulzoran Flower, Mr. Altano Samcata!"
The curtains were yanked back, and the white woman bowed swiftly off the stage. Into the light emerged a beautiful boy, probably of twenty-five and thin as a creeper vine. The sun had tanned his skin like honey bread, and his short blond hair formed the shape of a bowl, exposing his big, lively blue eyes and slanting down on the sides to the base of his neck behind his head. A fiery smile spread his cheeks, accented by a sharp nose and narrow chin. For clothes, he wore a simple black vest, hiding his nipples but showing all the rest of his lean chest. A pair of trousers covered him from his thin waist down to his upper thighs, where they had been cut off to show his springy, muscular legs.
Cheers greeted the Fulzoran Flower, and he bowed gracefully, his hair swishing around the tight skin of his face. In a voice thrice as powerful as anyone could expect from such a thin frame, he cried out, "Welcome!"
A few daring women yelled out bids, but the Flower merely put his hands on his hips, palms facing off to his sides, and shook his head. "I'm always sorry to tell bad news," he said, "But I am not for sale."
Moans of disappointment fell over the crowd. Arjani was not at all disheartened. She had assumed that the Flower would be too expensive for her.
"However," said the Flower, before the disappointment could linger, "I will show you what you can buy, and I think you'll agree that we've outdone ourselves! First!" He gestured grandly to the side of the stage, and another man walked into view.
If the blond boy was the Fulzoran Flower, this new man was an oak tree. He stood a hand-width higher than the Flower, who was already tall, and his shoulders were twice as far apart. Shoulder-length hair, the color of bronze, flowed down the back of his head. His slanted eyes stared restfully into the distance, full of ease and wisdom, and there was even a soft smile on his face, as if recalling some faint, pleasant memory. Around his sturdy neck, a metal collar symbolized his servitude. The rest of him, to Arjani's dismay, was covered by a heavy brown leather coat with sleeves and pant legs that swallowed up his limbs.
The big man stayed perfectly still as the Flower danced around him, pointing to him alternately with open palms and pointed fingers, saying, "Born on the harsh steppes of Altai-Chi, this man spent fifteen years as a husband to the most powerful warriors on earth, the Amazons!"
At this, Arjani jumped. Amazons guarded their men jealously. For one to be out here was a rarity indeed.
The Flower reached both ways round the Amazonian man's neck and undid a knot, letting his cloak part and slip to the floor. Beneath it, he was utterly nude.
The Flower began speaking again, but Arjani immediately lost track of his words as she took in the marvel in front of her. From one shoulder to the other, an even layer of muscle covered the Amazonian man's chest. His arms, bolstered by strong curves, hung idly at his sides, while row- of manly ridges underscored his flat stomach. A thick, perfectly round cock hung from a clean-shaven lap.
The Amazonian turned his head down and shut his eyes gently. Like a newly married prince-consort, he dutifully held his tongue and awaited the judgment of the feminine crowd.
"Medugai," said the Flower, facing the Amazonian man, "we've attracted quite a delightful crowd today, and your new owner's somewhere in there. What do you have to say to her?"
The Amazonian, Medugai, leveled his eyes at the crowd again. In his countenance, Arjani could see a mix of apprehension and hope, dusted by shrewdness. "I am here to serve," he said, in a sweet, smooth voice. "Amazons teach their men every trick to women's pleasure. Take me home, and I'll show you what I've learned." He finished off with a broad, easy smile.
Once again, brazen women howled out the prices they would pay for him, and to Arjani's relief, they were all sums that she could match. She opened her mouth to make her bid.
"Wait!" cried the Flower, flinging his arms out. "You are all making a mistake!"
That caught the attention of the crowd. Even Medugai stared sideways at the skinny blond boy.
"You don't want to bid on him before you've seen all we have to offer!" the Flower went on. "How prudent would it be to spend all of your money before you've even seen... this!"
