The Black Queen Pt 01 The Lottery

On most days the village was peaceful. It was a humble place where humble townsfolk made a humble living, and aside from the common vices and vagaries of everyday life, nothing exciting ever happened there.

But today was different. It was the start of the summer festival and the eve of the Queen's Lottery, and the sleepy cobblestone streets had transformed into a whirling cacophony of exotic sights, sounds, and smells. Jugglers tossed knives with careless ease, gamers dared passerby to test their skill for gaudy prizes. Children ran wildly to and fro while puppeteers screeched and battled in curtained boxes. Whores catcalled from the shadows, peddling their flesh to all takers. The air was thick with the odors of roasting meat, sweat, and spilled ale.

It was through these crowded streets that young Stefan wheeled and dodged as he made his way to the town well. He had been tasked with washing the front steps of the inn without dawdling or distraction. Failure to do so would result in several lashes from the innkeeper's notoriously stiff leather crop.

Stefan reached the well and lowered his bucket. As it filled, he looked on with a pang of jealousy as the townspeople around him jostled their way from spectacle to spectacle, partaking in all the careless revelry that he was not at liberty to enjoy.

Sighing, Stefan withdrew the dripping bucket and turned only to be ambushed by a pair of whores. They came at him from both sides, sidling up to trap him between their well-endowed and lavender scented bodies. The one behind him breathed warmly in his ear and offered the both of them for the low price of three silver crowns. Stammering, he agreed that it was indeed a bargain. The woman in front of him--a dark, lithe creature with bewitching eyes--traced her fingers down the front of his trousers and smiled, quickly lowering the price to two crowns.

He stirred uncomfortably and the bucket nearly fell from his grasp. Stefan had never heard so bold a proposal in all his eighteen years, and he did not know how to respond. He was shy, but though he did not know it, handsome. His shaggy red-brown hair and trusting eyes gave him the look of a friendly sheepdog, and he believed that the quiet giggles he often heard from the serving girls were merely the result of some joke at his expense. He was unaware that many would have bedded him had he only asked.

"I a-appreciate the offer," he gulped, his blood pounding too hot and fast for him to think clearly. "But I haven't--"

"I like him," the whore at his back interrupted, clutching him around the waist as if to prevent him from escaping. "He's shaking like a newborn calf!"

The woman in front of him smiled, then with a casual motion she opened her blouse, exposing her bare midriff and ample bosom to Stefan's bewildered eyes. Her breasts were full and heavy, the nipples dark and erect.

He stared spellbound for a moment until he was distracted by a sharp voice from the crowd.

"Hoy! Leave that boy alone, you harlots!"

Stefan looked over to see a glowering constable making his way toward them. The whores speedily withdrew, but not before making a final offer.

"One crown," the dark woman whispered as she covered up her breasts. "For both of us. Come back at sunset." Then the two ran off, laughing and stealing coy glances at him like a pair of dusky nymphs.

A very giddy Stefan made his way back to the inn. His bucket sloshed as he set it down and began to wash the mud-caked steps before the door. Above him hung the inn's signboard, a white-painted goose with wings outstretched and beak open as if to honk at passerby. The Wild Goose was perhaps the finest inn in town. It was also the only home Stefan had ever known.

His heart was still pounding mightily as he considered the whore's offer. Stefan had never known one woman, let alone two. His life had few enough pleasures, being filled as it was with menial labor and beatings. He had endured an even harder time on the streets before he had been caught stealing by the innkeeper and his wife. They'd given him a sound thrashing, then, seeming to pity the poor wretch, they had taken him in. He was provided with food, a roof over his head, and even a meager wage. But they did not consider him their son, the fact of which he was often reminded and not at all sorry for. It was plain that they had enough troubles with their own daughter, and Stefan was often thankful for their neglect whenever voices were raised and crockery began flying.

Nevertheless, the whore's proposal was enticing. He soon made up his mind to raise the necessary coin, though he wasn't certain how.

The steps were nearly clean when his work was interrupted by the indelicate clearing of a female throat. He looked behind him, lifting his gaze slowly over a pair of worn leather shoes to the smooth, pale ankles and shins which peeked out from under the pleated folds of a coarse green skirt. A slender waist gave way to a pair of slim arms holding a string-tied parcel to a petite, blouse-covered bosom. Then, at last, the willowy neck and delicately boned face with its deep blue eyes and wild framing of long, honey-colored curls.

Her name was Elizabeth. She was the innkeeper's beautiful and wayward daughter, and Stefan thought himself desperately in love with her--all the more desperate because it was clear that she cared nothing for him. Elizabeth regarded him as simple and wholly beneath her, much preferring to flirt with the wealthy merchants and officials who stayed at the inn. She did more than flirt, as Stefan well knew. He had seen her slipping out of a favored guest's door many a time with her hair mussed and skirts in disarray.

"Well?" Elizabeth said haughtily, her lips curling in scorn. "Are you going to let me pass, or must I trod over you?"

Shamed, Stefan moved aside, and in his haste he upset the bucket and drenched himself up to the knees. Elizabeth snorted in derision and climbed the steps to the door, leaving a fresh trail of mud as she disappeared inside with a tantalizing swish of her skirt. Cursing himself for his foolishness, Stefan rinsed the steps with the last of the water before making a detour to the stables to dry himself. On the way he passed beneath a large sign, the official notice of the Lottery that was posted across the land and known by heart to all that dwelt there:

By Decree of Her Royal Highness the Queen

All able-bodied young persons of eighteen to twenty years

Shall participate in the Great Lottery!

Winners will receive the honor

Of serving in Her Majesties' Court!

It was viewed as a rather dubious honor since few of the winners were ever seen again. Parents agonized over their children, torn between hope and misery. To win would bring honor and wealth to the family, though it also meant their son or daughter would be taken, perhaps never to return. But the allure of the Lottery was great, for to win was the only chance a commoner could ever have to look upon the reclusive Queen or visit her dark castle abode. Rumors concerning the dark and unspeakable things that occurred there grew wilder by the year, and the bawdy tales that circulated through the inns and taverns both chilled the blood and stirred the loins. The Queen was more feared than loved, for she ruled with a stern hand and was famous for her swift and severe judgments. It was also whispered that she was a sorceress, and many graybeards swore she that had ruled the kingdom for more than a hundred years.

Stefan would have liked to look upon the Queen for himself to see if she was an old warty hag or indeed still as young and beautiful as she was said to be, but he knew that the odds were greatly against it. So were the odds of him being dry by suppertime.

He entered the stables and climbed to the loft in search of a spare pair of trousers. Only part of the hayloft was used for its intended purpose, the rest was reserved as meager quarters for himself and the lazy young stable boy who also worked there.

As Stefan's head cleared the loft, he abruptly stopped and ducked out of sight. It seemed the loft was in use by someone else. Two someones, in fact. Peering up over the edge he could just make out the plump, matronly back of the innkeeper's wife. She was sitting on a hay bale with her thick arms encircling the waist of a swarthy young man as her head bobbed slowly at his groin. The man, a shabbily dressed and curly haired foreigner who Stefan did not recognize, stood clinging tightly to the beam above him, his eyes closed and mouth gaping.

There was little question of what was occurring, and Stefan looked on in fascination as the stranger was enthusiastically fellated by his master's wife. Every so often there would be a quiet slurp as the woman performed some convolution of her lips or tongue, and the man would gasp and cling tighter to the beam as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

Stefan had heard rumor of the wife's indiscretions, although he had never before witnessed any. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy. No one had ever given

him

such favors in the hayloft, though he had lived there for many years.

Then with a soft groan the man began to tense and buck, and the woman held him firm, slurping and swallowing noisily until he was spent. Stefan descended quietly, not eager to be caught spying. He began to tend the horses and at length the young man departed, grinning smugly as he chewed on a bit of straw. A short time later the innkeeper's wife followed, looking rosy-cheeked and in similarly good spirits. Stefan felt that he would never be able to look at her the same way again.

Returning to the now empty loft, he went to a loose plank and uncovered the small box that contained all his worldly wealth. He counted it and was relieved to find that he was only a few pence short of a silver crown. He was certain he could beg or borrow that much in the hours remaining until dusk.

But one of the serving girls went missing and Stefan was made to take her place as the parlor swelled with a thirsty crowd of festival-goers. He was soon rushed off his feet, and distracted by an impatient patron he crashed headlong into one of the barmaids, upsetting his tray all over her. The ale-soaked girl, Maggie, swore colorfully at him as the patrons hooted in amusement.

"Damn yer eyes, ye bleedin half-wit!" She fumed, her freckled cheeks coloring to an apple red. "I swear you dinna have the brains that the good Lord gave corn!"

Stefan humbled himself and took great pains over her, and eventually he was forgiven. He even helped to clear the wreckage and took charge of her tables until she could get changed. Despite her temperament, Maggie was the dearest to him of all the serving girls. She was near his age, short and robust, full-hipped and breasted with chestnut hair and hazel eyes. When he'd first been taken in, she'd stolen his pay and traded it back to him for kisses in the cellar, a penny at a time--a price he'd happily paid. There were times when he'd lusted for her and times when he'd despised her, but over the years they'd remained something akin to friends.

The day got on, and as the sun fell low in the sky Stefan began to despair. He had picked up enough coin in tips to meet the whore's price, but there seemed little chance he would be able to break away by sunset. At long last, when he was weary and all but defeated, the lost serving girl appeared and he was sent out to feed and groom the horses. This task he deferred to the stable boy, though it cost him a hefty bribe of three brass buttons and his favorite knife. He paid these grudgingly and hurried off just as the sun fell behind the hills.

Twilight was deepening by the time Stefan reached the well. The festival was still underway, with colored torches and grotesque paper lanterns lending an eerie glow to the darkening streets. He turned in a slow circle to search the crowd but saw no sign of the two whores. Sighing, he leaned back against a post to wait, watching in modest amazement as a performer on stilts spat long gouts of flame up into the night.

Presently there came a soft whisper in his ear. He turned to see the captivating eyes of the dusky-skinned whore gazing into his.

"Follow me," she whispered, taking him firmly by the hand and leading him down an alley. Stefan followed, his heart beating nervously in his chest. The light and sound of revelry faded behind them to be replaced by the dark stillness of night, and just as he began to fear for himself the woman stopped and suddenly embraced him, her warm lips pressing firmly against his. Stefan went along with the kiss gamely, though he was too anxious to fully enjoy it.

"You have the coin?" She asked softly. Stefan nodded and she flashed an eager smile.

There was the scuff of a footstep behind him and a dull crack on the back of his head sent the world spinning away. The next thing he knew he was on the ground, dimly aware of ungentle hands rummaging through his clothes. Voices rose and argued before swiftly fading into the distance. It all felt curious and distant, like a half-remembered dream. By degrees Stefan came back to his senses and stood up, wincing as he felt the lump that was beginning to rise on his skull. His pockets were turned out and empty, they'd even taken his shoes. Penniless, dejected and feeling like an utter fool, he found his way back to the street while making a solemn vow to never trust a whore again.

Stefan wandered for a time, passing various spectacles without really seeing them. A squat and rather jolly old man pressed a mug into his hand and implored him to 'raise yer spirits with a bit o' the spirit,' then rambled off singing a wild sea-shanty. Stefan took a swallow from the cup and nearly choked, his throat so aflame that for a moment he expected to breathe fire himself. But his head soon felt better, although his tongue had gone numb and the street seemed a bit wobbly. He passed the mug to someone else and made his way back to the inn, hoping for nothing more than a good lie-down to forget that the day had ever happened.

He climbed up into the loft and was soon joined by the stable boy, who questioned him so mercilessly about where he'd gone that Stefan felt he'd go mad. Then to his relief Maggie appeared, climbing up the ladder to greet him with a jug of wine. She doled some out to each of them, and as they sat in the lamplight sipping from battered cups, she proceeded to list the exact number of humiliating pinches and slaps on the rump she'd received that evening and dared them to top it with sufferings of their own. Between the wine and Maggie's lighthearted chatter, Stefan's spirits rose considerably--though he was still unwilling to admit to being robbed by a pair of deceitful whores. He considered it likely that he would take that story with him to the grave.

After a time, the boy nodded off and the conversation stalled. Stefan felt his eyes drawn again and again to Maggie's face, to the soft brown of her eyes and the rosy tint of her lips. He felt a sudden desire to kiss her, a desire that must have shown plainly on his face because she blushed and began to regard him with a deep suspicion. Emboldened by the wine, he gave a roar and leapt up, chasing her playfully down the ladder and through the stable until he finally cornered her against a stack of bales. Maggie's eyes sparkled and she smiled warmly as he pressed her up against the hay, and Stefan thought that his luck just might be turning. But she shied away from his clumsy attempt to kiss her and put her hand over his mouth, keeping him at bay.

"I'm nae so easy as that!" She scolded. He grabbed at her in mock anger and she darted away with a giggle, staying just out of his reach.

"Oh?" He replied, grinning. "I seem to recall when a kiss could be had for a penny."

"The cost has gone up, me boyo," she said, pouting her lips attractively. "What'll ye give me now?"

Stefan pretended to consider this for a moment then abruptly lunged, catching her around the waist and carrying her kicking and squealing over to a large pile of straw. He tossed her into it and fell on top of her, and for a moment their eyes locked. Something in the intensity of her gaze made his breath catch and his heart flutter. Before he could respond to it, Maggie wrestled him onto his back and sat atop him, holding him down by the wrists. He offered a token struggle, but she was perched directly over his loins and he saw no reason to dislodge her.

"I'll make ye a bargain," Maggie said impishly, back to her usual temper. "Guess me secret an ye kin kiss me tae yer heart's content."

Stefan blinked, puzzled. "Your secret?"

"Aye. But ye'll be gettin no hints, an dinna take too long about it. Who knows? I may win the Lottery an be gone, an that'll be the last ye see o' me."

That gave him a sobering pause. He didn't know what he would do without Maggie. Or Elizabeth, for that matter. The moment was lost, and they rose and brushed themselves off. Stefan remained thoughtful as he walked Maggie home and bade her a good night, promising himself that he would discover her secret even though he couldn't begin to guess what it was.

His sleep that night was troubled. He dreamed that he was lost in a thick fog and could hear Elizabeth calling out to him, her pleading voice soon joined by Maggie's. Frantic, he began running to and fro searching for them, but no matter what direction he turned their voices only got farther away.

* * *

The morning dawned cool and calm. Stefan rose with the sun to begin his chores, and as the day got on there was no mistaking the quiet hush that hung over the village. The Lottery would be held that very afternoon, and as the hour neared, Stefan felt a growing sense of unease.

Time passed with agonizing slowness, but at last the church bell tolled and people flocked in droves to the square as if enthralled by the brassy, ringing tones. The Queen's officials were already at hand, a score of black-robed men who went about their work with the solemnity of monks. They swiftly put the crowd into order, gathering the young people into rows at the center of the square and keeping onlookers at a respectful distance.

Stefan stood at the end of one row with Maggie beside him. Elizabeth was near the front, seeming bored by the whole affair. All told, there were perhaps two hundred candidates assembled. Before them the grey-bearded town magistrate watched the proceedings from a newly raised wooden platform, looking stately and reposed on his high seat.

The order was given to begin. A large barrel was placed in front of the assembly, and row by row the eligibles were taken up to draw through a curtained slot. Then they were put back in line and instructed to not to look at their token until ordered to. When his time came, Stefan drew and returned to his place, clutching the heavy iron coin tightly in his fist.

When the last person had drawn, the magistrate stood to address them.

"I will now choose the winning number. When it is called, you will stand as you are until an officer of the Queen directs you to present your token. I bid you all good fortune!"

A smaller barrel was brought out and spun to scatter its contents, and then the lord reached inside and produced a copper square with a number etched in its face.

"Forty-seven!" He called, his voice booming. Immediately the black-robed men started down the rows, checking and collecting tokens. Elizabeth was first, and Stefan held his breath as she presented her token. It was received and she was passed by. Stefan resumed breathing, only to halt once again as Maggie presented hers. She was passed as well, and at last it was Stefan's turn. The queens man took his token and inspected it for a moment, frowning. Then he abruptly raised his fist and shouted.