He was running out of chances.

The Director flung open the door. He stepped with the others into the sun.

-

The day I became a slave owner was filled with light.

A Spring sun streamed through high windows into the main entrance lobby. It warmed my back as I waited at the counter while a supervisor scanned the ledger for my name.

“Here we are,” she said, tapping her finger on the page. “And may I…?”

I surrendered my letter of instruction and waited, feigning confidence, tuning my attention to the faint noises of bubbling water and cheery voices echoing down the main hallway.

A woman at an adjacent counter signed the appropriate forms to rent a slave to guide her through the North Hall’s intricate courtyards and interiors.

The fluttery snap of smartly folded paper brought my attention back to the woman before me. She looked at me with new respect and introduced herself as Evía, apologizing for the miscommunication that left her uninformed concerning my arrival.

I reclaimed my letter and slid it into the deep pocket of my layered robes as she dismissed a hovering assistant and turned, ready to escort me with sharp, clicking shoes.

She led me down the hall, so much taller than it was wide, my eyes drifting upwards to the paintings of our Goddess and the Christa Child whose immaculate birth was not contaminated by any male contribution to her physical creation. Lesser murals depicting satisfying, simple life in the North Hall spread lower along the walls. This introductory hall alluded to playful regality, but was a façade of grandeur. In actuality, the internal body of the structure held a more pastoral incarnation of our Northern culture. I suppose you could say we were both proud and ashamed of our simpler, less technological ways in comparison to the other Halls.

At the end of the hallway two female guards in loose-fitting suits of red, representing devotion to Goddess and country, stood on either side of the entrance doors. Thin, whippy clubs hung from their belts, though their presence was mostly for show. The guards themselves were a decorative accent; slave uprisings were practically nonexistent in the North Hall, thank the Goddess, but other Halls were not so safe. In particular the West Hall, which produces the majority of fruit and grain for the nation, contains a majority population of Nameless field workers, and faces constant instability. There are a few families, but most women present are guards or female Overseers, watching over the workers and regulating peace to ensure quality agricultural production.

I met the welcoming smiles of the guards as Evía and I passed through the doors. The noises I heard from before were made clear: sounds of bartering, talking, laughter, and singing. The sun shone on multiple levels and courtyards still being cleaned from the recent celebration of the lewd Spring Solstice. The market was a common meeting place for citizens of the Hall and local townships. Every floor was comfortably populated with women, from warers and entertainers to shoppers and friends relaxing and enjoying the serenity of the large square. Among them walked slaves on official business from their Mistresses, while in the shadows Hall-serving Nameless passed by, as invisible as their names.

The market was our center of commerce and commune, contained within the mammoth walls of the North Hall and landscaped by shops, carts, and areas of public access such as libraries, parks, and places of worship. The square was both familiar and terrifying. When I was fifteen my mother took me to Spring Solstice to celebrate my so-called entrance into womanhood, and I have not returned much since. I knew nearly nothing of the inside of this place; its girth and promise of exciting interiors had not drawn me when I was a child, and its lure of culture and wares did not thrill my young heart. It remained foreboding and exclusive. Built across many generations, the North Hall sprawled between the hills, tunneled through with hidden pathways, rooms and corridors. It was our capital; the business, political, and educational center of our region, but I had never dared to probe its scholarly insides. I was grateful that Evía had decided to personally accompany me to the Matchmakers.

She escorted me through the maze of carts, tables, and fountains, smiling greetings at her employees and coworkers who were helping women and slaves find their way around the vast market. We passed through the breadth of the square and entered a dimly-lit hallway, identical to so many other capillary pathways emerging from the stone walls of the Hall. I wondered to what heart they channeled back to, and if I would see it today.

Evía remained respectfully silent beside me. We were women, acclaimed partners in all facets of life, and it is polite to converse and establish rapport, though I often received this reaction when people realized who I was.

Unwanted attention was another reason I avoided the Hall. With so many present, it was inevitable one would recognize and draw attention to me. Unfortunately, this gave me a reputation as a recluse, which would make a public appearance by me even more exciting, thus contributing to a vicious cycle I attempted to avoid by remaining as inconspicuous as possible. Still, I felt deeply the absence of Evía’s conversation. I was younger, and a stranger in what was clearly her familiar territory, and with any other woman she might have been professionally social and friendly despite an obvious stern nature, but with me she remained silent. I understood it was out of respect and deference to my esteemed status, but still unnerved me.

I spoke, perhaps foolishly, to block out the increasingly awkward sounds of our feet as they padded over the floors. “It is my first time for this,” I admitted, not willing to lend a name to the activity we now pursued. To name a thing gives it power. “I’m not sure what exactly to expect. I’d ask my mother, of course, but she passed on a few years ago.”

Evía murmured sympathetically. Family relationships are the nexus of our daily lives. To be alone in the world is rare and unfortunate, but a way of life I adapted to. Evía reassured me, in a clinical way, that the process would carry itself, and the representatives of the Matchmaker would guide and assist me. My personality tests and lists of preferences had already been completed. All that lay before me was the actual courting: a chance to physically see and speak with potential slaves.

“Myself, I have three slaves. It is the right amount, I believe; adequate enough to care for my estate and my children.”

“How many?” I asked.

“Five,” she said with pride.

It was a good, average number. Less than three is seen as questionable; either an insult to the country or the shame of infertility. I have heard of women with as many as eighteen children. They are widely celebrated as great contributors to the community.

“Of course, the physical benefits are pleasing,” she continued. “It is comforting to know they will always be there, whenever needed, until death.”

“True,” I said, “I’m sure matured slaves are wonderful companions. I remember the slaves of my mother. But I have no experience with new slaves. They seem so… raw.”

To me, the new slaves were strange, just beyond being Nameless -nothing. With no name, they had no power. They were cogs. Machines. Bodies whose entire lives were beyond our comprehension, and just barely within our control.

“Have you considered a second-hand slave?” she asked me.

I paused. If a woman takes a slave and later finds him to be unpleasurable to live with, in either a week, a month, or many years, she may return him. This must be terrible thing for the slave, who loses not only his Mistress and any possible daughters, but his fellow slaves in the family, with whom he may have spent many years, and most importantly his name. It is more difficult to be taken as a second-hand slave, especially when in middle age. Many returned slaves are never chosen again; they become laborers until retirement, when they work at soft labor or skills, typically in their native Hall.

“Perhaps later. If the new slave is difficult to condition, I might bring in an older one to teach him.”

Evía nodded at the common practice. She sympathized, and offered examples of how slaves evolve, not remaining Nameless either literally or figuratively. At first they seem to be strange and underfoot, but they become, with hopefully a quickly-ignited pregnancy, more useful. Practical, she said, and lifelong friends. And, of course, if they did not slip into domestic partnership, pleasing a Mistress’s temperament and cycles, returning them was always an option. It was a business transaction, another complimentary addition to the home, fitting in, matching, like the pattern of curtains or slope of a couch.

“If you are uneasy about letting a strange male into your life, you could bring one of your mother’s slaves to live with you for a time.”

When my mother died, it was my right to absorb the remainder of her household, but at the time I wasn’t ready for that responsibility, and they went to family friends. “No, I don’t want to disrupt their lives again. My mother’s death was traumatic for us all.”

Evía nodded. “Not even your fathering slave? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“My father was an Equal,” I revealed, or rather admitted.

Evía bowed her head in respect and apology. The Equals are the only men considered to be on the same level as women. There is a legal process to emancipate a slave and make him an Equal, but it is a complicated and lengthy, and there must be a valid reason to do so. Very few men ever prove themselves worthy to be equal with women. Traditionally Equals are born from other Equals. If an Equal sires a son, the woman may choose to name her son an Equal and keep him, or do her part for the community and surrender him to the slave system. As such, Equals are typically born, not made, and thus considered genetically superior to their slave counterparts.

Evía opened a door in the wall, revealing an elevator called to life by pulleys and electricity from the sun and wind. We slowly rode up four floors and then she left me in the care of a receptionist in a dark red office, murmuring a traditional parting blessing as I thanked her.

My new caretaker, dressed in the deep purples of those who only directly serve the Baronesses or the Empress, smiled at me. “Welcome. The Baroness is expecting you. This way.”

The Baroness. I resigned myself to the fact that this would be no anonymous, intimate session, but a production.

I was handed from woman to woman and assistant to assistant like a shared plaything, led through dark servants’ corridors and announced to identical offices. The professional monotony changed when the woman leading me opened heavy doors blocking the end of the pathway, and light streamed into my eyes. We stepped into a place enclosed by the natural gray walls, lit by tall, thin windows cut into the stone.

Women of all sorts, and even a few Equals, were here, standing or sitting at metal tables and peering over charts. Their discussion was the frenzied argument of Scholars and apprentices all blending to form a loud, serious buzz.

We walked forward.

Self-consciously, I met questioning stares to turn them down in embarrassment, because it was obvious I did not belong, but I could not do the same for the surprised whispers that assaulted my ears:

The Poetess! their whispers said, every eye judging curiously, every mouth asking with the awe of a witnessed anomaly. They would analyze me now, measuring if I appeared different and attempting to recall where and when the last time I was seen in public. I wondered how many faces were concealing a grudging dislike stemming from my refusal to open the Empress’s unlimited credit book and award them the grants pleaded for now and then in auspicious letters sent to my house. Of those I had not offended, how many would be recharged by my presence, as I allowed them gleeful bragging rights over the other Halls which looked down upon our land in the north for its chosen technological retardation. We were more feudalistic, yes, but still home to the Empress’s appointed Poet Laureate.

I resented this path, no doubt intended to subtly boast of my presence. Surely there was another way to reach wherever it was we were going. The residents of the North Hall never failed to take the opportunity to remind everyone, especially themselves, that it was here that the most well-known Artist of the writing element chose to make her home, as if it was a choice I could make. I was born here, and had no reason to leave.

At the head of the whispers and curious eyes, an old woman dressed in pale, creamy, yellow robes strode quickly through a row of fantastic silver instruments to intercept us, a trail of women fanning out like dark purple streamers behind her.

She greeted me as she would a long-lost daughter; bright, joyful face beaming as she kissed both my cheeks on tiptoe as I bent towards her awkwardly. Her long, black hair was peppered generously with gray, and the half not drawn up in braids lay loose across her shoulders.

“We are pleased to see you again,” the Baroness announced, perhaps for the benefit of the audience in attendance, taking my hand and leading me onward.

I had met the Baroness, an Empress-appointed lifetime director of the Hall, several times before, the first when undergoing consideration for my application as an Artist, something astounding at the age I was, next when I was accepted, hand-selected by the Empress herself, and occasionally after that during official ceremonies and meetings. Once a year the Baronesses made an effort to visit other Halls, and sometimes I am invited to attend luncheons or speeches at these events, again as a trophy of sorts. Always the North Hall Baroness remembered and greeted me enthusiastically with an impressive presence that left me feeling, though she was very slight, that I had been looking up at a great woman. She had been particularly kind to me when my mother died; arranging for all sorts of care and legal help to process the estate. The Baroness radiated warmth and kindness, and I thought of her as a distant, powerful aunt.

As she guided me, entourage in tow, further along the maze of corridors and halls, she informed me that the selected Nameless had been sent for, and we would receive them in what she described as her ‘Common Room’. Her giddiness lent a sick, nervous version of itself to me, and I smiled at her though my insides were twisted and spiked with adrenaline.

“The Baroness of the North Hall, the Poetess… and company,” an elder servant announced loudly as we rushed through the doors and surprised a group of young, chatting attendants waiting there.

They had not been inducted yet into actual service, as evidenced by their outfits, which varied in design and were definitely not the official purple color. They quickly assumed a straight, silent, non-intrusive line, heads bowed but eyes trained on the Baroness.

I nearly rolled my eyes -surely standing and looking anxious and pretty all day was not their sole occupation- but I ignored them in favor of the architecture and design of the Common Room. I believed perhaps this was the elusive heart of the Hall. Practical and elegant at the same time, it expanded into a largely empty, rectangular room of gray stone lit by a single, wide skylight, and clearly we were at the peak of the towers. The walls sported portraits of the prior Baronesses and other important persons, including the young, delicate body of the current Empress, my beloved patron. Thick rugs were thrown over the floor towards the center, directly beneath wide stairs encompassing and leading up to a round dais containing table and chairs. Elder women sat at this table, and it appeared we had interrupted their meeting -books and files were scattered on the surface, white paper shining from between aged hands.

If I had been alone in this room, I would have approached that elevated table and examined the paper they used, analyzing individual handwriting and scrutinizing their bearers of ink. I have an eccentric attraction to paper; as an artist to a canvas, it is my medium, and the differences in thickness, texture, color, material and cut fascinate me. It is not for nothing that I have my title. If only through love I have earned it, and it has become me.

While I wondered foolishly as to what official paper the Hall’s councils chose to scribble on, and if it was the same as my own, the Baroness pulled me towards the middle of the room as the group at the table rose and descended, floating tiredly towards us to be introduced.

“This is the Ana, the Matchmaking Director here to oversee the event,” the Baroness said, introducing a slow-moving, wrinkled woman, and I nearly winced. An event. And they wondered why I remained secluded so far out of the city. “…And this is my dear friend and personal advisor, Lída de Madalla-” the little Baroness fluttered around the crowd tossing out names, most of which I recognized as belonging to important women in our political system. The majority of looked mildly interested, yet tired. I had the vague feeling they were here for the sole purpose of seeing me, which only increased my discomfort.

I hadn’t expected such a large party to be present at this rather personal ceremony. I harbored no one any ill will, but wished desperately for solitude and the private intimacy of a single, traditional Matchmaker. If I had known this step towards legal maturity would be so marked in ceremony, perhaps I would have stayed home, forever a pariah, but at least a comfortable one.

An attendant approached and whispered in the ear of the Baroness, who instructed a clearing of the path, and the council made their way slowly towards the primary exiting door, their purpose for attendance having been fulfilled. The young attendants slipped off on padded feet to the back of the large room. Those who were the private assistants of the Baroness, and whom, I assumed, and rather hoped, had a more important job than appearing important, lined up behind her and I, while the Matchmaking Director ambled slowly to stand with us.

After everyone was arranged and standing expectantly, a far door, waiting for that silent cue, opened. A large woman, her brown garments implying she was a director of labor, led the way, followed by an anxious-faced assistant with an armful of files, and then a line of beings the likes of which I had never seen in my life.

Flanked on both sides by capable-looking guards, they were alien and soft of feature in a morbidly exposed way, all dressed similarly; their practical, neutral-colored clothing style distinguished them as Nameless, as opposed to the specific styles distinguishing slaves and Equals. Their hair varied in length, from freshly shaved to more grown out, implying they were groomed every so many weeks in an identical fashion to prevent the spread of diseases or lice and encourage uniformity.

I have seen Nameless, of course, all my life. They work at the Hall and maintain the cities, but their presence is meant to be muted and invisible. I had never seen them assembled in such a fashion, like cattle waiting for my selection of meat, for once intended to be seen. I have heard women say it is disturbing to witness these coarse, pitiable, non-equals and non-slaves brought forth, exposed all at one time. They say the utter untamed and uninfluenced maleness in them is bristling, that their uneducated inferiority is almost laughable, but I felt none of these things.

Instead, as I saw this chain of boys unfold before me, I felt an uneasy and guilt-ridden well of sadness at the awesome power of my gender and their obvious inferiority in comparison. I felt control: I alone would choose to bring one of these perfectly-formed young men out of their Namelessness and give them the chance, however small, to rise to the status of Equal, overcoming their violent instincts of masculinity, the blatant countenance of which I saw shining innocently out of every down-turned face. They were perfect specimens: weak, malleable, and gorgeous. Had the Nameless always been this beautiful, or was this group selected for looks in particular? It was another gesture of respect, I suppose.

They marched before me, more than my eyes could stomach, and the Baroness whispered as they filed past, bragging of their qualities, of work ethic, loyalty, physical fitness, and aesthetic appeal. On the last quality she nudged me and raised her eyebrows in a suggestive manner, mock-implying that she was young enough to lust after such as these, and I laughed nervously at her attempt to render me comfortable.

It is no secret that slaves are used for such purposes. It is expected as a way to consummate the contract of ownership. Almost every woman is created out of coupling with slaves; I happened to be just an occasional exception — superiority is determined by gender, not paternal parentage; therefore all women are equal to each other. Some women even find it necessary to own slaves specifically to share their beds at night -pretty, pretty bodies that perhaps can work with skill and stamina, but may have always survived on looks alone, planning and hoping to become slaves of such a physical genre as sex appeal.

There is much teasing involved when a girl takes her first slave. Having few local acquaintances, and fewer local friends, I was spared some of the indignities of ‘first rite initiations’ inflicted upon those with already matured friends, and thus had no skin for tolerating The Baroness’s quips. Sensing this, her wise eyes smiled at me with leniency, and I was introduced to the hefty woman who led this troupe of young men with no hint of ribbing amusement:

“Amaria, this is our Poetess.”

“A pleasure, my lady…”

I only nodded at her deep bow and flattering title, my throat too dry for words. I tried to form a question, but in the lapse of conversation Amaria took charge.

“Ana and I personally reviewed your results,” she said proudly, referencing the Matchmaking Director by first name. “These Nameless demonstrate the closest matches to your preferences in terms of nature and skill. I am confident they are all worthy of a woman of your station. Preference of physical attributes, of course, has been left up to you,” she noted on the variety of their appearances, and I flushed hot. “Shall we begin? I have each of their folders present for your inspection, and of course you are welcome to interview them separately.”

Every woman’s eyes in the room turned to me. Only the Nameless remained silent in their stares.

I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, I’m not entirely sure how this works.”

The Baroness laughed not unkindly, but I think Amaria rolled her eyes. “It’s simple,” she said. “Just dismiss the ones you don’t like and review the files of the rest. If you like one in particular you can sit down and talk with him. If none tickles your fancy we can give it a few weeks and reassemble with a new group.” She spoke impatiently, with an attitude bordering on rude, but I assumed she did not intend offense and was merely accustomed to speaking to men.

“Does that happen often?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t scare the girl,” the Baroness said while smiling, and took my arm, preparing to march me forward. “It’s her first time, after all. Shall we?”

With Ana following, we approached the immobile line and walked along it, the two guards mirroring our movements from behind a wall of bodies. As I studied them, the Nameless’ features came into sharper focus and the differences in our male and female bodies growing more pronounced. They were like life-sized toys; amazing and foreign. One would be mine.

Each wore the brown or gray garments of a Nameless, their numbers the only adornment. Nameless only gain a name when inducted into a woman’s household; it is her privilege to christen a Nameless during the Naming Ceremony, usually a personal affair taking place within a couple of days that cements the bonding of slave to Mistress. Until then they wear and are identified by an eight-digit code indicating Hall of origin, birth year, nursery division, and division number. Any given Nameless would most likely be referred to among his peers by the last two digits of his number.

I looked at them shyly as we passed. The first was bigger than me in both height and girth. So strong! His tawny brown hair was newly cut, his face freshly shaved. The next was smaller yet with bolder features, and though his eyes were turned down I saw that they were blue; a coveted color, but not one I desired.

“It was a privilege to sort them for you, my lady,” Ana said with the wavering, powdery voice of the elderly. “I rarely practice the Craft anymore.”

“The Craft?”

“Matchmaking is an Art, dear child. A very important one. We invoke the duende as much as you when practicing it.”

Ah, the duende; the fabled, ancient muse of great Art. Affectionately nicknamed ‘the tiny darkness’, it is the fever that overtakes us in the throes of creation, such as in dancing, singing, and writing. But this was the taking of a slave; maybe the Matchmakers were looking too far into this, trying too hard to accommodate, or perhaps impress me. Though they could not know, it was not duende I relied on, but afflatus, and that would work with or without their interference. I had prayed to the Goddess enough to have faith She would bring me to the right slave to take.

“What are you looking for, my dear?” the Baroness asked. “Ana and Amaria will have read your charts, but I’m afraid I’m a bit in the dark.”

In truth, when I wrote to the Empress and explained my concerns about isolation from a true woman’s life, I was only feeling the differences between myself and any other female my age. I woke alone and slept alone. Chasing after words and ideas was growing monotonous. I could live in the same stage for months with no one to jar me from my habits.

One day something in me cried out for a slave, and I acquiesced. I was ready to begin my full life.

“I’m looking for a founding slave,” I told them. “I need a caretaker for the house and lands; they’re beginning to fall apart with no male to mind them. I’m also hoping to add a library on to the house.”

Property is cheap and plentiful, but most choose to live in one of the gossipy, quaint villages surrounding the Halls. My mother had one, and I would have received a town house as well when I came of age, but my status as one of the Artists easily allowed me access to the country properties.

Houses were all alike in every Hall, from rural North to technological East to political South to eccentric West: each just big enough for those dwelling within. The concept of a mansion was rarely heard of -outside of residents of the Halls, only the Empress lives in extravagant surroundings, and it is said even she sometimes retreats to a quiet seaside cottage. And still, property is not any great thing dividing the classes of women. Anyone would say there are no classes, but this is only wishful thinking. No society can be truly equal; the philosophy of women as sisters and partners in life was born from the clash between the genders. The women stand together, us against the men. Our bodies are held in awe, and our natures seen as ideal. Perhaps we consider ourselves this way to ensure the men treat us this way. They are naturally physically stronger than we are. If they had no respect for us, if they were not conditioned to inferiority… well, we had our fears.

Any woman can work at anything she wants, provided that job is beneficial to society. Persons such as myself tend to be honored and respected more, perhaps unfairly, but in general all women are touted to be equal, or certainly more equal among each other than the males are equal to us.

“You know, we have a marvelous library here,” the Baroness said. “If you ever visited of your own volition I’m sure you’d find it enjoyable.”

I laughed. “I know I stay distant. With a slave I’m hoping to have more time for the community.”

This answer satisfied them though it was only half true, and Amaria refocused us to the task at hand. “These are high-performing laborers. They’ve all received top marks in both physical skill and the more delicate talents; cooking, sewing, crafts. They are all well-trained trained in childcare and development and have experience in the nurseries… Any of them would serve you well. Better than well.”

“Does anyone catch your eye?” the Baroness asked conspiratorially.

My eyes flickered along the row of men. There were Nameless of all shapes, sizes, and colors. They were all young, healthy, skilled, and attractive. All things being equal, I might as well spin in a circle and point.

And then…

When I begin a new writing project, I often search for a base idea that will evolve into something marvelous. Sometimes I find it floating magically in the ether of my consciousness, and my mind lights up with a very particular feeling of familiarity. It is the spark of recognition; an idea whose colors are a little brighter than its neighboring possibilities. When I saw him half way down the line, I felt that spark. Everything about him shone, more vivid and intense than the surrounding Nameless. I saw him like he was the only friend I knew in a room of strangers. Even now I remember how he blared into my senses.

“That one.”

My choice ignited someone’s laughter, immediately choked into silence. Amaria glared at the offender behind me.

“What is it?” I asked her.

She smirked. “It’s just that many ask about that one first, but he’s never been Chosen.”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Handicapped. Oh, he’s completely functional,” she said to my silent question, “intelligent enough, and obviously a great beauty, but most women don’t like flaws in their slaves. To be honest, if he weren’t so attractive he’d never be eligible for selection.”

No one in the line had even shifted during the conversation. They were very good at remaining inconspicuous. I dared to look at him again, and was dazzled just the same by his beautiful face: warm, flawless skin across fine features with brown hair falling into his eyes. Any number of slaves across the country could have shared those attributes, but though his head was downcast, anyone could see even across this distance that he was remarkable. He stood straight and tall, somehow more still than the others. He was not large of muscle like the earlier slave, but neither did he want for strength. He looked good to touch. That was not a desire I had often felt.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“A mute. Since the nurseries. A Nameless doesn’t need to speak, but a slave can hardly get by without it. Frankly, my lady, he’s only here because he’s nearing his last rotation, and we try to slip him in whenever we can. Disabled Nameless typically go to the West Hall immediately after the nurseries, unless the new Disability Referendum goes through, but he’ll be heading there soon anyway if no one chooses him.”

“What is the Disability Referendum?”

“They’re trying to make it so that disabled Nameless can be terminated if they are unfit for work. It’s not likely to go through; that Charoleen keeps campaigning for Nameless rights. You’d think she wasn’t even a woman, from the way she’s been acting.”

There were two things about Amaria’s words that struck me. One was horror that Nameless could actually be executed for being unusual or disabled instead of merely transferred to hard labor. The second was indignation on behalf of my childhood friend and former schoolmate, Charoleen de Barbero, now the official political Representative of the North Hall, the youngest in history.

“Would he be terminated?”

Amaria’s look softened at my concern. “Probably not; don’t let sympathy sway your decision. If it came to that, we’d push for some Mistress to take him up as a bedroom companion before the law was instated; he’s pretty enough, and the silence wouldn’t be much of a problem there. But even if not, lack of speech isn’t so severe that he couldn’t be transferred to hard labor. He’d be out of the factories at least.”

“Isn’t the factory work still handled by male Overseers?”

Amaria’s mouth grimly contracted. “Yes,” she said, “but not for long. We’ve had… problems.”

“What sort of problems, if I may ask?”

“Oh, nothing very troubling,” Amaria said, waving it away. “Men, you know. Purely male and unsophisticated; not like the Equals. Personally I think it was a mistake to ever allow them to be promoted. If they weren’t good enough to be slaves they’re not good enough to be in control of potential slaves. They’re not designed for compassionate leadership.”

“Oh.”

“He’s very alluring,” the Baroness whispered up to me, blue eyes twinkling, but I could see this was just her teasing again; she did not seriously consider him one of my choices.

I told myself that I couldn’t fix everyone’s problems. It wasn’t only that I pitied him for being disadvantaged, and that if the situation progressed, he might even be killed -that alone would have haunted me, but Ana had earlier mentioned the duende, and it clung to my thoughts still. Though not my usual consort, if it existed at all it was laughing over my shoulder now.

Amaria looked ready to move on, but I was fascinated by this silent slave, by this muse incarnate. “What’s his number?”

“We really shouldn’t have included him. I apologize for the oversight, I–”

“I asked for his number.”

The Baroness observed the tension between Amaria and I as I fully realized my dislike of her. She was loud and self-important and overstepping her bounds, even had I not been the petty figurehead I was.

“N31H7723,” she recited coldly though her assistant scrambled for the file. His birth year was one before my own.

“Perhaps you would like to consider the other Nameless,” the Baroness said, a charming mediator. “We can take as much time as you like.”

“Yes,” I said. “That will be fine.”

I always feared myself powerless, and worried that even with a grand title and royal sanction I was malleable to anyone’s will. Rebelling against Amaria cured me of that in a moment. He was changing my life from the first moment I saw him.

“May we dismiss the attendants?” I asked the Baroness. “I would prefer this to be a private undertaking.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling slyly at my confidence, and shooed the offended girls out of the room while Amaria and I stood at odds, as still as the Nameless before us.

“The guards, of course, will remain,” Amaria said. “It would be most unwise to dismiss them as well.”

“Of course,” I demurred. “I wouldn’t dream of being unwise. Shall we start over at the beginning?”

The first slave, the strong one, straightened imperceptibly as we approached, one of the female guards monitoring his actions from behind.

He was highly attractive in his own right, with a broad, honest face. “What is this one’s number?” I asked.

“Forty-Six, my lady,” he replied in a low voice, eyes still downcast, and with a swift, fluidic movement the guard stung him with her tiny whip.

I gasped in horror.

“Number Forty-Six will not speak unless spoken to,” the guard snapped. “I am sorry, my lady.”

The astounding difference in the tone of her voice -snarl to purr- when addressing us both shocked me. “No, no, it’s all right,” I stammered.

I had not ever remembered any slave being punished with physical beatings, by any Mistress. The confiscation of privileges, or forcible police removal if a male proved violent, yes, but never direct physical reprimands. Was this ordinary behavior to treat a Nameless?

To my fumbling surprise, no one reacted as if the guard’s actions were incorrect. “I prefer to question them individually,” I said, and the guard accepted this easily, though she made no move to apologize to the Nameless she had –in my eyes- unjustly struck.

He had not even flinched. As we moved on I swear the Baroness winked at him and he hid a quick grin, but his good-natured response only disturbed me further; were physical reprimands such as that so common that he did not linger on them?

We walked the line again, this incident moving to the back of my mind. After all, I suppose the physical punishments must be necessary. Everyone knows males are unstable and violent. The whips and clubs must be in use for a reason. It was none of my business how they were controlled. I should be thankful, even, that the system worked to keep me safe from Nameless rebellion and conditioned them for docility as a slave. Though it may seem cruel, the whips and clubs must prevent violence and disobedience and rape. How could I object to that?

I asked the numbers of every Nameless, letting them respond in their own voices, trying to lend them some humanity in the obvious frame of their uniformity. I knew that women were naturally superior to men; everyone said so, from the any woman in the Hall to the Empress to the Goddess Herself, but despite this being a common practice I wasn’t comfortable examining them like wares at the market. They might be Nameless, but they were still human. The same males who stood impassive before me might one day be great Equals. And yet we cannot measure by potential. I dismissed several.

“What is your number?”

“Fourteen.”

A pleasant voice. His hair was very light, and he seemed older than the others by a few years. He must have been around twenty, at least, which was old age for a Nameless eligible for slavery. His face was freshly shaven, but a small layer of stubble had already grown. I wondered how many other times he had been considered and rejected. Was there something wrong with him, or was it simply that no woman had yet considered him the perfect match?

Though I could sympathize with him, I did not feel strongly for him. I signaled, and he was dismissed. I felt strangely guilty, almost as if I feared what his thoughts of me were, or his thoughts of himself, but pushed the feelings away. The Nameless will survive; they always do, and after all, I had to make a singular decision. I couldn’t take all of them, and in fact there was only one I was seriously interested in, the one we were approaching now…

I paused in front of him, and Amaria stiffened and crossed her arms.

“Number Twenty-Three,” I said. “Look at me.”

Exquisite.

Beauty was always a prominent feature in the slaves. Over the generations, most undesirable traits were bred out of them -no woman would really ever select an ugly male, and so they were all naturally attractive, but he was more. He would have been absolutely stunning, a truly magnificent sexual attraction, but as he stared at an invisible wall between us his eyes were dark and serious with absence. He was mute in both voice and sight. It is written that eyes are windows to the soul. Their blank indifference ruined the overall effect, yet still I trembled as we moved on.

Things were falling into place inside of me. I knew what the only outcome of this must be. He was mine from the first moment I saw him.

“I’m ready to interview them now,” I announced, having finished the line quickly, neglecting to even dismiss any more. It was pointless, really.

“Very good,” the Baroness said with glee. “And where would you like to start?”

“At the beginning, I suppose. Number Forty-Six, was it?” The guard prodded him and he stepped forward.

“This way, my dear.” The Baroness led me into a private side-room, the guard and Nameless close behind. Amaria placed a stack of files on the table in the center.

“These are in order of how we’ll send them in,” she said tersely. “If you have any problems, Maria is here to help. Call us if you need.”

The Baroness waved and grinned before the door was shut. Maria the guard leaned against the far wall, looking bored. Number Forty-Six waited for me to sit before he also took his seat.

I selected the first file. Opening it, I saw a summary of his work and skills as the first page. Full number: N32M8646. Flipping back through the pages I saw test scores and analyses, yearly measurements of growth, work schedules, and educational summaries going back and back, his face regressing in the photos, down until a newborn, until his birth certificate and in-utero charts.

An entire life summarized by one folder. I turned back to the beginning.

“It says you exceed with woodworking. You apprentice as a carpenter?”

If a Nameless shows a talent for a craft, particularly if it is something useful such as carpentry or stone working, they apprentice to become experts in their field. If a Mistress chooses an apprenticed slave, she is required to let him continue his apprenticeship and will collect income from any project the government chooses to include him on. Slaves’ duties can be transferred of course, but most women are content to have one or two of their slaves keep these day jobs.

He nodded. “I believe there are photos of my work in the side pocket.”

It was so strange to hear a Nameless speak, his masculine voice hitting my ears at different, lower frequencies than I was used to. I drew out the pictures and examined his portfolio. He had completed fine tables, small figurines, and helped to construct buildings and shops.

“This is very impressive,” I told him.

“Thank you, lady.” His eyes were captivating. “Because of my size, I am often assigned to tasks that require physical labor, but I am very capable in domestic areas as well. Look.” He reached his hands towards me, palms up, and the guard stiffened slightly. “I can make buildings or feed children. I have recommendations from my time working in the nurseries.”

At his invitation I touched his large hands. They were firm and smooth, and hot on my fingertips. They were sturdy and capable. If I were wise I would choose him, or one like him. He was the perfect Nameless –talented, strong, and gentle. He would make a good father, and by the intensity in his face, a good lover.

I smiled at him, and he smiled back. I stood, and looked to the guard so she could escort him back.

“Is that all?” she asked me. “Don’t you want to examine him?”

“Haven’t I been doing that?”

“Oh, my dear,” she laughed. “This really is your first time, isn’t it? Number Forty-Six, if you please.”

In one practiced movement he removed his shirt, and there was a half-naked, muscular man towering above me. Maria laughed at my expression. “Most women choose to examine them a little more closely than you did. Some prefer to see more than this.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said. “But very impressive. Thank you.”

Number Forty-Six bowed, eyes trained on me, and I blushed under his gaze. “Thank you, my lady.”

I sat down, alone for a moment while the next one was fetched, and wondered. Number Forty-Six was accustomed, willing even, to being examined like an animal. If I had asked, I wonder if he would have let me look into his mouth, feel his arms, listen to his heart. I suppose it’s best for a Mistress to make sure he’s what she really wants, and go into the partnership with no illusions, but it also seemed very… dehumanizing.

I had already been away from other women for too long.

Nameless came and went. My pile of files shrank on one side and grew on the other. I spoke to all of them, and they all answered with respect and enthusiasm. In some of their files I could see the dates marking threats instead of time. If they weren’t Chosen soon they would be transferred to the West Hall, undergo castration to limit their moods and instability, and work the rest of their lives in the fields. They were all desperate to impress me. They smiled and laughed and blinked and teased. They wanted me to like them. They wanted to become slaves. It was breaking my heart.

“He’s next, you know,” Maria said, escorting out Number Seventy-Five, and winking.

Yes. Number Twenty-Three. I stood to wait, and through the open door I could see the Baroness far away at the raised table conversing with another group of women. The Nameless were seated on the floor now. Number Seventy-Five was returned to his spot, and Number Twenty-Three rose.

Even his gait was beautiful. He followed Maria into this interview room and she shut the door, resuming her position of leaning against the wall in boredom.

I sat down and pulled his file towards me.

“You may sit, if you like,” I said, and he gingerly took his seat.

I could hear his breathing; slow, steady breaths. He did not look up, or give any indication he knew any of us were there. This was in stark contrast from the way the other slaves had behaved.

“Hello,” I said. No response.

I could have forced him to look at me with a simple sentence. With my tongue I could render him half naked. Everything about him was mine for the asking. And yet I was powerless to control him. He was the most fascinating being I had ever encountered, and already I warped the rules for him in ways they never should have been.

Maria was not so kind.

“Number Twenty-Three, your attention please.”

His head snapped up but the eyes remained lowered beneath long eyelashes.

“Thank you Maria… actually, would you mind leaving us for a few minutes?”

Her raised eyebrows contradicted the sugar of her speech. “Not at all, my lady. Please knock if you need anything.”

I winced as she slammed the door. He did not even blink. I took a breath, and smiled.

“Well,” I said. “This is better.”

He remained stationary as I took his file onto my lap, now leisurely taking my time to read the details of his records.

His scores were very decent. He was proficient in cooking, sewing, gardening, and carpentry. He had a noted talent in drawing, but its development would be left up to his Mistress, if he ever had one. He had not been siphoned into an apprentice program; was it lack of specialized skill or lack of speech? When not in training he worked in the factories, including the one for paper.

Ah, my first love. Before there was writing and story-telling, before there was my father’s voice reading to me, there was the feel of paper under my child fingers. There was the scent of paper, my father and I sniffing the deep crevices of books in the library and my mother laughing and calling us fools.

The Nameless before me understood paper. Before I ever saw him his hands worked the machines that pulped the wood and made my beloved medium.

I smiled at him.

Tucked into a pocket of the file I saw a few showcased drawings, a selection of his talent. I pulled out the drawings and saw him stir slightly. His eyes moved beneath heavy lids.

“These are very good. Your talent could be sold.”

He nodded once.

Flipping back through his file, I saw his progression through history: yearly photographs and measurements, scores, projects, and most notably a slew of doctor’s examinations analyzing the capabilities of his throat, finally concluding his muteness to be a medical mystery. Surely it was not by choice?

I hit the back of the file, and frowned. There was no birth record in here. Not only that, but there were no newborn pictures, or measurements, or anything. His file started abruptly at age five. Perhaps the earlier records were lost. I flipped all the pages back to the beginning, my mind made up. There was nothing in that file to keep me away from him.

“It says here this is your last work rotation. If you’re not chosen as a slave, you will become a laborer in the fields at the West Hall. Have they explained that to you?”

He nodded again.

“Do you want to be a laborer?”

He slowly shook his head.

“What do you want to do?”

Number 23 lifted his eyes to mine. They were a rich, deep brown, set inside a glorious face that stared at me with detachment, but how could anyone fail to see pain in the shadows beneath his dark eyelashes, or the fear pulsing his pupils wider?

Inside, my body was reacting to him in powerful, abnormal ways. I felt wetness creep into my underarms as adrenaline soured my stomach. Never entirely comfortable with men, I was nervous and panicked under his simple gaze. He was Nameless, and should have been seeking my approval, but instead I found myself desperately hoping that he was wanting this to work out as much as I was, that something in him was responding strongly to me as well.

How could I think to take a mute slave? We would be able to converse about nothing. He could not call out to me, either in greeting or warning. He could not describe projects or meals, needed supplies or future wishes. He could bring back no news from town, or even convey to anyone how I and my household were doing. I could expect only silence from him, silence and frustration.

I consulted the folder.

“You have learned the slave’s language. Do they use this as a way to communicate with you?”

He responded in the negative, eyes still burning into mine.

“No? Hmm…”

We have two written languages. One is for the slaves and completely phonetic, with one sound per symbol. This simple alphabet is used on products and in places that slaves will have to deal with in their line of work. The second language is for women and Equals; it is more complicated, and symbols can have different pronunciations dependent on its surrounding symbols. It is mostly socially forbidden to teach a slave to read the language of women.

“Have they told you about me? Do you know why you’re here?”

He shook his head.

“I live far from the North Hall and its cities. I live alone. I work alone. I have a large property compared to the plots of the little towns, but I would only like to care for the hill I live on. Life there would be simple and easy… if you would like to come with me.”

The emotion in the room flared, though neither of us moved. I knew what I was offering was unheard of -giving options to a Nameless. He was a beautiful thing, and as with all beautiful things, easy to bruise and damage. It is much more difficult to make a rough thing beautiful than it is to ruin something precious. He was gorgeous, and the muse in me sang to look at him, but if he would not speak and did not want me or my life, then I would rather do without.

“Number Twenty-Three. I’m willing to live with your silence if you’re willing to live with me.”

I was young and naïve and infatuated. He just wanted a way out. He blinked once, slowly, and nodded his head.

Maria knocked on the door. “Is everything going well?”

“Yes, thank you,” I answered. Grinning, I rose from the table and he followed suit.

I opened the door and walked out into the Common Room. Annoyed, I saw it had filled back up with people and attendants in my absence.

“You haven’t finished with the other slaves,” Maria complained.

The Baroness saw me walking towards the dais and excused herself from the group. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I’ve just decided.”

“You’ve decided?” Her voice was incredulous. “Already? This is only your first session.” Her brows met quizzically in the middle.

Decisions of this sort were usually belabored, discussed, and agonized over. Hundreds of points had to be considered and multiple questions had to be asked. A woman conversed with the Matchmaker until a mutual choice was made. Only a fool would decide as quickly as I had. But I knew my mind and the way it worked, knew what was the right thing to do. If I walked away from him now and chose another, I would always wonder what would have happened. Better to take the opportunity now. He could always be returned if my instincts were proven to have made a grievous error.

“I don’t need more sessions. I’m sure of my decision.”

“It is unwise to choose a slave from only the first session,” Amaria said, joining us. “Statistically speaking, the more sessions the process takes, the more certain a Mistress is of her choice, and the likelier it is that the match will prove to be a successful one.”

“I’m not interested in any of the others,” I said.

“Number Twenty-Three is beautiful, but he’s not meant to be a founding slave!” Amaria protested. “He doesn’t have the temperament, never mind the physical abilities.”

“Then he shouldn’t have been included in the selection. Thank the Goddess he was, however, as he’s the Nameless I feel most strongly about. I am sure he will work out fine.”

Amaria looked distinctly upset, but I could not understand why.

“Well, it’s your decision, dear,” the Baroness said, sending an attendant to clear the table dais of people. “And you can always return or trade him, I suppose. We just want the best for you. It’s a bit of a hassle to return a slave; we would just like to save you that.”

“I appreciate your concern,” I said respectfully in deference to her authority. “Thank you for supporting my decision.”

“Well. I suppose I’ll draw up the necessary paperwork. Forgive me for not having it ready. This is highly unusual,” Amaria’s tone bordered on rude again.

“I do have just one question,” I told her. “In his file, it seems some records were lost.” Or censored. “Everything starts at age five. Why is that?”

Her lips pursed. “Number Twenty-Three is special in more ways than his face and lack of voice. We don’t have any record of him before age five. He was found, unconscious and dirty, by a road. Not even near a Nursery, though no one reported any mysterious disturbances. He is suspected of being either an illegal or a bastard son.”

“An illegal? I thought they’d been gone for years.”

There were rumored to be groups of women and men living illegally as Equals together in isolation up north. This unnatural co-existence was pursued with intent to arrest by the government, but the official propaganda stated that these examples of heresy were wiped out decades ago. Bastard children, on the other hand, are the sons of women who birth their children at home and hide the existence of their male children as opposed to surrendering them to the Nurseries.

Amaria shrugged, disinterested in elaborating. “He was lucky. Lucky still, I suppose.” She left without excusing herself, a definite insult. Her assistant scurried after, and the guards instructed the Nameless to rise. In one long, silent row they filed out, some looking distinctly disappointed, others with no expression at all. Number Twenty-Three was one of them.

“Well,” the Baroness sighed. “Would you like to come sit with me while we wait? We’ll have some tea and catch up. Oh, and Ana sends regrets that she could not stay for the whole session. We assumed, of course, that there would be a next time. She’ll be embarrassed to have missed giving you a proper goodbye.”

“Tell her I understand.”

We mounted the dais and I was disappointed to find all paper had been cleared from its surface. I sat on a cushion covering the seat of a firm wooden chair and waited while an attendant poured our tea.

“This was sent from the West Hall yesterday… you can almost taste the freshness.”
I sipped appreciatively.

“Well my dear,” she continued, “it seems you continue to surprise us. A mute slave, and on your first day no less.”

Refusing to apologize or explain, I changed the subject. “Will Nameless really be terminated if they poses a disability?”

“My dear, there are those in this world who forget sometimes what it is to be human, and to have compassion for those less fortunate than themselves. True, there are sometimes difficulties and obstacles encountered when employing the services of a disabled Nameless –from those suffering muteness to brain damage to shrunken arms- but they were placed in our care by the Goddess Herself, and it is our duty to watch over and provide for them. This new proposition was submitted to increase productivity, but it was written with the mind, not the heart. We women are creatures of the heart. I am against this legislation, and do not think it will stand long in court, not only because of its own distasteful merit but because of opposition from women like myself, your friend Charoleen included. In fact, she spoke on the topic here in our auditorium not two weeks ago. Didn’t she tell you?”

“I didn’t see her on this last trip,” I admitted, “but she wrote to me about it. Her schedule was too confined to allow recreational visits.”

“That is the curse of the politician,” the Baroness smiled. “We intend to serve all people, sometimes at the sacrifice of our family and friends. But the Goddess is blessing her and her work; Charoleen is doing wonderful things for our Hall.”

“Oh? I’m sorry, I don’t keep up with politics as much as I should. I know about the things that directly affect my life –the technology changes and such, and of course what I am asked to write about on royal command, but as for local rules and regulations I’m in the dark.”

“For shame, young Poetess,” the Baroness teased. “How can you be the Mouthpiece of a nation if you don’t understand the changes within that nation?”

“Yes,” I admitted shamefully, “I’m trying to be better. Taking a slave is part of some new life changes I’m trying to make for myself. It’s boring and lonely in my house. I want to be involved more with the outside world.”

“We would love to have your involvement!” she exclaimed warmly. “It’s what I’ve been urging from you for years.”

“Yes, I suppose I’ve just had to grow up a bit.”

“Very wise, child. I know it must be difficult with your mother gone and no one to guide you.”

“I’m surviving,” I defended. “I have worlds of knowledge in books, and instruction from the Empress’s council.”

“Of course. But if you ever need a human ear to listen, I’d be delighted to meet with you for lunch any day I’m free. And of course if you joined any council or group you would make enough friends and advisors to last a lifetime.”

“Let’s go slow,” I laughed. “One day soon, I promise. Tell me about what Charoleen’s doing.”

“She’s just causing a ruckus, as usual,” the Baroness confided. “Women here see her as an outsider: she lives in the East Hall and has no slaves, so what insight could she have to the common woman?” It was nearly the same sting applied to my life. “That, and she’s a woman with a true heart. She’s passed many laws enhancing the rights of Nameless and slaves, and regulating their work conditions. It’s only humane in my eyes, but many feel as if the system isn’t broken then we shouldn’t try to fix it. To Charoleen, of course, the system is broken if the Nameless are getting injured due to work injuries, or if an infection breaks out in one Nursery or another.”

“But how could anyone argue against that?” I asked. “No one would want the men to live in misery.”

The Baroness made a face. “It’s not so much that as they don’t like giving the men too many privileges or luxuries. Namelessness is strict and uncomfortable for a reason, of course.”

“Is it?” I was surprised.

“Of course. It’s meant to impress a contrast between being Nameless and being a slave. All Nameless aspire towards slavedom. Can you imagine if they didn’t? If being a slave wasn’t an honor, but a right? Women work to enrich the soul and mind. Men work because it is their place and purpose. No society can function without its working class. If men were coddled, who would maintain the farms, the electricity, the sewers? All things would fall.”

I mulled over these thoughts as the Baroness sipped her tea. I had never considered the slave system in anything but its own terms, accepting its existence as the way it was, no more, no less. To find out the system was carefully monitored as a delicate ecosystem was like discovering a door in the middle of a familiar wall. What else about this world was I in ignorance of, despite my many readings? It occurred to me that my personal library was composed of fiction and memoirs. What did I know of nonfiction treatise on government and philosophy? What did I know of social organization? What, really, did I know of men, and their place in our lives?

It was my first glimpse into the complicated mess that was our society, and any society. We stood in a precarious balance, and any law or cultural shift could bring us all tumbling down.

“I suppose that makes sense,” I said.

The Baroness nodded. “Charoleen is young, but she’s capable and strong. I hope she survives this next election. Even if not, she’s made enough beginnings that those after her can forge the middles and the ends. At least she’s making women pay a little more attention to the elections.”

Part of the reason Charoleen was able to be elected is that the North Hall’s government is very small and anonymous. Politics is not our favorite pastime nor our most public one. Charoleen ran a strong campaign and advertised herself in person on the streets; I wrote a positive character review of her and she was elected with ease despite her youth.

“I like the changes she’s brought from the East Hall,” I said. “I’m glad she lives there, though of course I wish I could see her more often. I’ve never been, but I hear they have technologies to amaze the mind.”

“Yes. She’s a little thief, bringing back the best ideas and implementing them here to our benefit,” the Baroness laughed. “Really, can you blame the other Halls for thinking us backwards and inconsequential? We still use horse-drawn carts. Have you seen the AV’s she brought back to introduce into the Hall?”

“AV?”

“Automotive Vehicle. Like the carts, but made of metal, and powered by energy converted from the sun instead of horse or oxen.”

“I haven’t seen any, but I’m familiar with the solar technology. The idea of it, anyway.”

The Baroness laughed. “Yes, I’m afraid I’ve no mind to understand the complexities of it either. It’s giving our Scholars something to grumble about though, so that will keep them happy.”

The Baroness continued to describe the changes Charoleen was bringing about, and what we could expect in future years if she retained election. I was proud of my friend for the success in her career. As we talked I forgot of the reason for our wait, as wrapped up as I was in the Baroness’s entertaining conversation. Her topics drifted over amusing stories of the attendant’s drama and gossip, details of her daughters’ and grandaughters’ lives, academic wars of the Scholars, and construction additions to the North Hall. Life in the Hall and cities was so full of interaction and changes. Accustomed to my solitude, it seemed both entertaining and wearisome; everything shifting and developing at a fast pace.

Finally she reminded me of our purpose. “And so my dear, I must ask: Can I be expecting any children out of you this time next year?”

I laughed to hide the pain, and lied. “I’ll do my best. Perhaps it’s best to wait and see how life goes with a slave.”

She nodded. “Very wise. Give it time. Be sure of your decision. Have you considered any names for him?”

“Honestly no. It’s like naming a character. I won’t have any idea what name fits him until I know him better.”

Just the thought of living with Number Twenty-Three brought back my nervousness, and a feeling of nausea. Away from him, I could forget what I felt when I looked into his eyes. I had chosen a stranger to share my life and my house based off of a girl’s gut reaction to a beautiful face. What had I done?

Feeling sick, I deflected the Baroness’s teasing of Consummation rites until at last the far door swung open. Amaria led, then her assistant, then Number Twenty Three followed by Ana. He wore a slave’s garments, more flattering than the blank gray of a Nameless’s uniform. My stomach settled.

Of course this was right. Of course.

Amaria had a terrible storm brewing on her face as she ascended, and her assistant looked frightened, waiting at the bottom of the steps.

“My Baroness, I feel required to say something to you before this transaction takes place.”

“Of course, Amaria.”

She stood a little straighter and looked the Baroness in the eye. “I will say this, then I wash my hands of it. In my professional opinion it is a mistake to allow this girl to take a slave on her first day, let alone this one.”

“Amaria-“

“I take full responsibility for allowing him to be included in the line,” she continued, ignoring the Baroness’s request for silence. “It was a mistake, and I regret it. The Matchmaking process is not supposed to work this way, with a spoiled child-celebrity choosing men on a whim!”

The Baroness stood, but Amaria rushed on. “Every Nameless of mine deserves a good home, and every time they are returned it’s another mark against them making it more difficult to attain that. Handicapped Nameless require special care. She can’t pick the prettiest one of the lot on the first day and say that-“

“-Enough!”
This was one of those moments I felt like the Baroness was twice as tall as any of us. Her glower could move a mountain.

“Your professional opinion is noted, though I am incredibly disappointed in your method of expressing it. It is a woman’s right to choose her own slaves, and she is beholden to none but the Goddess for responsibility of them. You are dismissed.”

Amaria let the contract fall to the table and left through the main door, attendants parting for her like she carried a plague. The Baroness addressed those in the room, now silent with shock.

“For anyone who would spread this as the latest gossip, let me say to you: the Poetess is a woman like the rest of us, and free to choose slaves as her heart and the Goddess dictates, judged by none. I wish her every happiness and joy in her new domestic life. We women have a taste for beautiful things, but may we also see the inner humanity in all people. I admire the Poetess’s courage in choosing to care for a slave that will require extra accommodations and work. Let none speak badly of this choice.”

A moment of silence, and then everyone awkwardly returned to their own tasks, basted in Amaria’s humiliation and the Baroness’s anger. I stewed in frustration and embarrassment, defensive of the Nameless waiting at the foot of the stairs, and deeply uncomfortable in the presence of so many who now knew the details of my personal life.

“My dear, I apologize on Amaria’s behalf, and we’ll speak of it no more. Let’s go over this contract.”

I nodded, and she explained the details: by signing I agreed to uphold the regulations regarding care and treatment of the Nameless in question until I chose, if I chose, to legally name him as my slave. This would involve signing the final line of the contract and officially stating his given name. I was allowed to return him with no penalty before he was my slave; if I returned him after I faced a fine and if this habit of returning slaves continued to excess in the future my slave-taking privileges could be suspended or revoked.

The Baroness witnessed while I signed my name on the appropriate lines, taking ownership of him with a signature. My possession, my plaything, my potential slave. With the scribble of my hand, my name took responsibility for all hope he had for his.

Number Twenty-Three was no longer Number Twenty-Three, leaving behind the closest thing to name he had and entering the limbo between Namelessness and slavedom.

From the top of the dais I considered him. I wondered if they let him see his division once more and say silent goodbyes to his fellow Nameless within it. I wondered what it must be like to have one’s life uprooted in a moment, with the future always uncertain; would he stay, would he be returned, would he ever work within these halls again?

I stood at the top and looked down on him. He waited patiently, a life, a home, and a future curled around his heels. Waiting for me.

I descended.