Pengram ushered in a young woman, or effeminate young man, about fourteen or fifteen years old. She wore a man’s overcoat, threadbare and dirty, that concealed her figure, but the face and hands were feminine enough; her lips, cheeks and eyes were heavily made up in a way no respectable woman would decorate herself, but her hair seemed to have been recently and incompetently cut short.

---

The Manumission Game

Part 1 of 6

by Trismegistus Shandy

---

Boss Ftero was a busy man at the best of times. This week, since his long-time rival Boss Sgadrim had died (or at least disappeared; the rumors were many and contradictory, but he certainly hadn’t been seen in five days or more), he was busier than ever. Sgadrim’s sons and his other lieutenants were fighting over who would be his successor, and Ftero was determined to take advantage of the confusion and carve out a large chunk of Sgadrim’s territory adjoining his own. Probably as far as Mirror Square, and maybe as far as Kurintu Street. Things looked good so far, with Sgadrim’s lieutenants focusing mainly on each other and not yet retaliating for Ftero’s so-far minor incursions.

“All right, Tesro, you’re the carrot for this operation, and Gurim’s the stick. Take several enforcers and pay a little visit to Sgadrim’s joydust operation on Silversmith Street.”

“Upstairs from the hat-shop, right.”

“You know it. Walk in and inform them they’re working for us now, with fifteen percent pay raises all around. If they don’t like that, Gurim, you can break a few fingers to start with, and work your way up to heads if necessary.”

Once Tesro and Gurim had left, Ftero asked his secretary, Pengram: “Has Ftymsar reported back about the Kusrem Avenue operation?”

“No, Boss — but there’s someone else here to see you.”

“Who?”

“She won’t give her name,” Pengram said. “Or his, maybe. Looks like a girl, but sounds like a castrato... probably one of Madam Esgara’s girly-boys, if I had to guess. Says he, she, whatever, has some information about Sgadrim and his organization and will give it only to you.”

“Well, send her in.”

Pengram left, and moments later ushered in a young woman, or effeminate young man, about fourteen or fifteen years old. She wore a man’s overcoat, threadbare and dirty, that concealed her figure, but the face and hands were feminine enough; her lips, cheeks and eyes were heavily made up in a way no respectable woman would decorate herself, but her hair seemed to have been recently and incompetently cut short.

“Sit down,” Ftero said. “Pengram tells me you’ve got something to tell me about Sgadrim’s organization.”

The young person looked at him and said — his voice was definitely that of a castrato — “I guess you don’t recognize me, Uncle Ftero? I’m Tyngsen.”

Ftero gaped, searching the boy’s features for resemblance to the nephew he hadn’t seen in seven years — the nephew he’d thought had been killed at the same time as his father, Ftero’s younger brother and right-hand man, and the rest of his family.

“Sgadrim’s men made us watch while they killed Mom and Dad,” the boy continued. “Me and Kisri, I mean. Then they took us away, and I think they set fire to the house on the way out...”

“Yes,” Ftero muttered, “we thought you were killed in the fire too...”

“When they got us to another house, somewhere across town, they made me watch while they raped Kisri, and they made her watch while they castrated me. Then they separated us — sent us to different whorehouses. They told me they’d kill Kisri if I misbehaved or tried to escape, and I think they told her they’d kill me if she did. They let us write letters to each other, to prove we were still alive. So I didn’t try to escape until her letters stopped coming, and I figured out she was dead, or maybe had escaped...?” He looked at his uncle with a faint glimmer of hope. Ftero had to crush it.

“If she did, she didn’t come here. And I don’t know where else she could have gone... We’ll look for her, though, I promise. And... if Sgadrim isn’t dead, I’ll kill him with my own hands.”

“He is,” Tyngsen said. “I killed him when I escaped. Madam Esgara, too.”

Ftero looked at the boy with respect. “Five days ago?”

“I think so.”

“Where have you been since then?”

Tyngsen told how he had gotten thoroughly lost, and wandered around the city for several days before finding his way to his uncle’s territory. He’d been arrested twice and spent two nights in jail; once for solicitation, before he managed to steal some men’s clothes and cut his hair, and once for vagrancy.

“Why didn’t you wash off the whorehouse makeup first thing?” Ftero asked at one point.

“It doesn’t come off,” Tyngsen said, with a bitter laugh. “Madam Esgara’s alchemist put it on so it would stay, not long after he castrated me.”

He’d been cautious about who he asked directions of, and how; he’d been confined to the upper storey of Madam Esgara’s bordello for the last seven years, and his knowledge of the streets even in the neighborhood he’d lived in as a child was rusty. He couldn’t exactly ask respectable citizens in other quarters of the city, or even near here, which way it was to Boss Ftero’s territory. But he finally found his way into some streets he recognized, and then managed to spot some of Ftero’s errand-boys, running messages and packages from one joydust operation or gaming house to another.

“It took some work to catch up with one of them and convince him to listen to me — they’re fast, and they’re good at spotting tails and evading them, and I’m out of shape after living at Madam Esgara’s for so long, never going outside. But I managed to convince one of them that I had important information for you, and he led me to one of your gaming houses, and introduced me to somebody who led me here.”

Ftero nodded. “I’m glad to see you again — I can’t find words for how glad. You say you’ve killed Sgadrim and Esgara already; I can’t thank you enough for that, though I know you did it for yourself and Kisri, not so much for me. But if there’s anybody else who mistreated you in the last seven years, anybody you want to put a contract out on, let me know. And if my alchemists and sorcerers can fix you, I’ll have them do it, no matter what it costs... But first, tell me what you know about Sgadrim’s operations?”

“Sure. The other stuff can wait; you need to know this now, 'cause if it’s not outdated already, it will be soon...”

Ftero called Pengram in to take notes as Tyngsen told what he had overheard Sgadrim and his lieutenants talking about in recent months. After they’d been listening to Tyngsen’s account for half an hour or so, occasionally asking questions, Ftero heard a low rumbling noise from Tyngsen’s stomach.

“You’re hungry,” he said. “When did you eat last?”

“Yesterday afternoon sometime...?”

“Pengram, send an errand boy to the Hureshan takeout place around the corner; have them send plenty of food for the three of us.”

Tyngsen thanked his uncle, and resumed where he’d left off.

They continued talking after the food arrived, and after they’d finished eating it. From time to time, Ftero would look startled at some piece of intelligence Tyngsen had mentioned, and send Pengram with an urgent message to one lieutenant or another, then tell Tyngsen to go on. Finally, Tyngsen said, “That’s all I can remember right now. If I think of anything else later, I’ll tell you.”

“This will help a lot,” Ftero said. “I have a cot in the back room there you can rest on, now, and as soon as I can spare Pengram from his other duties I’ll have him drive you to my house. Within a few days I’ll have my alchemists and sorcerers take a look at you and see what they can do for you; right now they’re a little busy.”

“Thanks, Uncle,” Tyngsen said. “I could use a rest.” Ftero showed him the small room with the cot, and returned to his work.

---

Four evenings later, Boss Ftero had Symsar, one of his best alchemists, summoned to his house. The servants were dismissed and Ftero, Symsar and Tyngsen met in the bedroom that Ftero had given to Tyngsen on the youth’s arrival.

“Tyngsen, why don’t you tell Symsar everything you can remember about what Madam Esgara’s alchemists did to you,” Ftero suggested. “I don’t know if he can fix it all or if we’ll have to get a sorcerer to do part of it —”

“I can’t make things grow back after they’ve been cut off,” Symsar said apologetically. “I think a good sorcerer probably can, though. Tell me what they did and I’ll see what I can do.”

Tyngsen began: “Well, they castrated me first, and then they put some kind of poultice on the wound —”

“Did they cut off everything, or just your testicles?”

“Everything. They kept changing the poultice every few hours until it wasn’t bleeding or oozing anymore. And then they did some other things down there, more cutting and another series of poultices until that healed. And then they started on my face... You can see what they did there, I guess, or at least I don’t think I can tell you any more, I don’t know the names of the potions they used or what went into them.”

“How did they administer them? Make you drink them, or rub them on, or inject them?”

“Oh, right. They used a needle and injected little drops of stuff into my lips and the flesh around my eyes and my cheeks. And then they started me drinking stuff, a big glass of nasty-tasting stuff every month on the night of the new moon.”

“What color was it?... Did it bubble...? Was it more sour or bitter tasting...?” Symsar made notes as Tyngsen answered these questions. “And they had you drinking that stuff for how many moons?”

“For seven years — every new moon until six days ago.”

“Is he going to get withdrawal sickness if he stops taking it all at once?” Ftero asked anxiously.

“I don’t think so,” Symsar said, stroking his grey beard thoughtfully. “That kind of reaction usually happens with drugs you take every day, or several times a day. Let me examine him more closely... Tyngsen, I’ll need you to remove your clothes.”

“Do you want me to leave, Tyngsen?” Ftero asked.

“Ah... you can stay, I guess,” Tyngsen said, glancing back and forth from his uncle to the alchemist and beginning to unbutton his tunic.

When he was undressed, the alchemist looked over his slight figure with a clinical eye. He had breasts, small enough that his loose tunic had entirely concealed them, but his nipples were not as large as a girl’s. His hips were perhaps as wide and his waist as narrow, proportionate to his height, as a thirteen or fourteen-year-old girl, and his hairless crotch looked superficially like a girl’s; but Symsar suspected that a closer examination would show this to be purely cosmetic. That was the province of a sorcerer or a surgeon; he wasn’t going to humiliate Tyngsen more than necessary by examining him there now.

“Turn around slowly, please... All right, you can get dressed now. I’m still not quite sure what potion they were using on you, but ceasing to use it shouldn’t cause problems. As for reversing its effects, though... I can give you something that will help some, if you keep taking it regularly for years the way you’ve been taking the other one. But if a sorcerer can give you back your penis and testicles, my potion won’t be necessary; and if not, well, the most mine will do is make your breasts slowly atrophy, make you grow a beard, and help you develop a more masculine muscle tone, if you also get plenty of exercise. What I can do right away, or at least within a few days, is remove the permanent makeup from your face. I’ll come by tomorrow, shall I, with the first of those potions?”

“Yes, this time tomorrow will suit,” Ftero said.

“It may take longer to undo the extra thickness they induced in your lips,” Symsar warned, “but my tattoo-removal potion should probably take care of the coloring within hours. I’ll return tomorrow evening, then, Boss.”

“Good... Thank you. And remember, not a word of Tyngsen’s condition to anyone. I expect he’ll remain secluded until we’ve reversed as much of those butchers' work as we can.”

Symsar glanced sympathetically at the young castrato. “I hope the sorcerers can fix him,” he said, and took his leave.

---

The next evening, Symsar returned and applied the tattoo-removal potion. It left Tyngsen’s face tingling for the rest of the night, and stopped him from getting any sleep until long after midnight; he slept until past noon the next day. Three days later, Ftero left his office just after lunch, returned home, picked up Tyngsen, and drove to the office of Gurefkam.

Gurefkam was a skilled sorcerer who had done work for Ftero as well as other powerful men in the city, including Tyngsen’s late tormentor Sgadrim, and the mayor. Even Ftero could not demand an appointment with him at a moment’s notice, or summon him to his house. He greeted Ftero and Tyngsen courteously, but without the deference that most people showed to a boss with Ftero’s reputation.

“Come into the inner chamber,” he said, “and tell me what ails you and what you require. Your message was not of the most detailed, Boss Ftero.”

“It’s a matter to be circumspect about,” Ftero said. “I didn’t want to take any chances, in case the message should be intercepted.” He asked Tyngsen, “Do you want to tell him or shall I?”

“I can do it,” Tyngsen said, and he repeated his story, with more details about the work Madam Esgara’s surgeon and alchemist had done on him, and fewer details of his escape, than he had given when he first told his uncle. Gurefkam looked grave, but asked few questions until Tyngsen had finished. Then he said,

“I am sorry to say that I cannot restore your manhood. At least not fully — not so that you could lie with a woman and get her with child; and even to enable you to urinate standing up will tax my resources to the utmost.”

“Then who else can you recommend?” Ftero said. “I know sorcery can fix this — in my grandfather’s time Boss Rumisyn’s son was tortured and castrated by his enemies, and Rumisyn got him fixed up, though it cost him a third of his wealth. And he has descendants still living.”

“There is a spell that can regrow lost limbs, or other parts, if it is applied soon after the injury is sustained,” Gurefkam said. “Its ingredients are rare and costly, but still to be found. And there is also a spell which, at low power, can restore an aged man’s potency, and at the highest power, can restore the manhood of a eunuch or even turn a natural-born woman into a man. But this latter spell requires ingredients which can no longer be had at any price — even the lesser form of it requires two ounces of powdered unicorn horn and the incisors of a black dragon, and the greater form, which Tyngsen would need, requires an entire horn and a whole set of teeth. The last known unicorn was killed three hundred years ago, the last black dragon nearer five hundred, and the last remaining supplies of their horns and teeth were used up three generations ago. In your grandfather’s time, as you remarked. I know of no source for either of those; if you can find them, I will be happy to perform the spell at a reasonable cost.”

“But... there’s a pair of unicorns in the zoo at Dyram, aren’t there?”

“No, those are rhinoceroses. They’ve been hunted to the brink of extinction by fools who thought they could substitute rhinoceros horn for unicorn horn in these and other spells... but don’t think of sending someone to sneak into the zoo and cut off their horns. It would do your nephew no good, even if they succeeded.”

Ftero clenched his teeth and was silent. Finally Tyngsen spoke:

“All right. I didn’t really expect you could make that stuff grow back. And I don’t mind, really... I don’t care for lying with women, or with men either, and I guess it would be convenient to be able to pee standing up again, but I’m used to sitting down. But can you make me not look so much like a girl? If nobody can tell when I’ve got clothes on that I’m like a girl between my legs, then that’s enough for me. Symsar says his potion will make the boobs go away but it might take years for it to work; can you do it faster?”

“I could, but it would be unnecessarily costly and complex to use sorcery for that. A surgeon could remove them in an hour or so. I can also use sorcery to give you a masculine appearance in other respects... in fact... hmm. Let me think.”

He stared off into a corner of the room, muttering under his breath for a few moments from time to time. Then he rose, went to a bookshelf, and took down a couple of volumes, one of which he opened up on his desk, and read. Ftero and Tyngsen watched silently. After reading two or three pages in one volume, and several more in the other, Gurefkam looked up at Tyngsen and said: “It is the appearance of masculinity that you desire, yes?”

“If the reality is impossible, the appearance would be enough. Actually, from what I’ve seen of men, I’m not sure I’d want the reality even if it were possible.”

“Then perhaps a persistent illusion will serve your purpose.”

“Is that really all you can do?” Ftero said.

“No. With enough money to buy certain rare ingredients, I could reshape the structure of Tyngsen’s face and rebuild his hips and waist in a more masculine shape. I could even give him a sort of pseudo-penis, a mere tube of flesh which would let him urinate standing up. But it would cost a hundred times as much as the illusion spell — which will not be cheap — and it would take months, perhaps more than a year, during which Tyngsen will be in constant pain. The illusion spell I have in mind can be cast on the next full moon, in the course of a few hours, and will require only a brief discomfort and inconvenience on Tyngsen’s part. The only disadvantage, compared to the arduous series of body-shaping spells, would be that he will still need to sit down to urinate, and that he will need to avoid the most powerful anti-sorcery charms and dead areas where sorcery doesn’t work. But there are no such places in Kosyndar, or within fifty miles of it, and an anti-sorcery charm powerful enough to dispel this illusion would probably be part of an attack on his life, such that staying alive would be more of a concern than keeping his secret.”

“I say we try it, Uncle,” Tyngsen said. “I don’t think the other one is worth it. I just want people to look at me and respect me, to see a man, somebody who can do a man’s job. Not a girl who’s good for only one thing.”

“Tell us more about this illusion spell,” Ftero said gruffly. “Is it going to make his voice sound right, too? Will it fool mirrors and cameras...?”

---

---

I'll probably post part two in about a week.

"The Manumission Game" is inspired by (though not exactly a sequel to) an old story from the Transformation Stories Archive. I'll identify that story and its author in an afterword after part six is posted, but you're welcome to speculate about it in the comments. Probably it will be obvious to people who remember the story in question by the end of part four, if not part three.

A Notional Treason, a transgender fantasy of manners in the same setting as Wine Can't be Pressed into Grapes and When Wasps Make Honey, is now available from Smashwords in EPUB format and from Amazon in Kindle format.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.