by Megan Hart
I did my best to look stoic, but a grin forced its way to my lips. He pulled off his nightgown and tossed it to the floor. Beneath it he wore an undertunic made of some thick, soft fabric, and matching briefs. I glimpsed the slight curve of his belly between the edges of the two garments. The hair on his arms and legs, and beneath his arms, was as golden as that on his head. In a shaft of sunlight from the window, he glittered like a star.
Without the bulk and ostentation of his finery, his body was lean and lithe, his arms and legs muscled but thin. I would never be as strong or tall as the average adult male, but next to the prince, I felt like a hulking beast.
He looked over his shoulder at me. "I'll make a pretty picture clad in naught but my shirt and hose."
I startled, my hand snagging in his hair as I pulled away. "I plead your mercy."
He turned, and his eyes held mine for another long moment. He reached a hand to touch the length of my braid, which had fallen over my shoulder. "You have lovely hair. It would please me greatly to see it worn unbound."
The fear of discovery had kept my youthful urges in check, as had lack of coin to pay for the casual encounters most young men sought. I'd resigned myself to knowing I would live a life of necessary celibacy. I'd never yearned for a lover.
Until now.
He tugged loose the ribbon holding the end of my braid. My hair, thick and unruly, its color as ink next to the sunshine of his tresses, fell about my shoulders. It curtained me, shielded my face for a moment, and I was glad for its protection. I didn't want him to see the lust I could feel burning in my eyes.
And then he turned to finish pulling on his own clothes, leaving me grateful and despondent he had not offered to become my first.
Chapter Eight
Court was, as Daelyn had said, interminable. True, there were juggling jesters and dancing boys in sheer costumes that performed acrobatics. There was food and drink and talking and flirting. It was magnificent, and opulent and at first I had gaped and goggled like a rube.
Still, once I eaten and drunk my fill, and watched the dancing and magic, my fingers longed for something to do. Working for my uncle had accustomed me to constant movement, never-ending tasks, something to occupy my mind at all times. Here, in Daelyn's Court, I couldn't even participate.
Daelyn's lordlings discussed fashion and hunting, who was fucking whom and who wasn't fucking anybody. The older men, the ministers and advisors and councilors, played cards and drank and smoked foul-smelling cigars while they boasted of how many sons they'd spawned, or complained of how the women in their household needed constant supervision.
On the two chime and again at the four, supplicants who wished to petition the Prince Regent or any of the Councils were shuffled into the court to plead their cases. Daelyn listened to them, passed his decree and ordered them out again. It was incredibly dull.
The Councils of Fashion, Finance and Agriculture mingled with lords not elected to any governing seats. The Council of the Book sat apart from the rest. Five men, all dressed soberly and none looking happy. The sixth man, Lord Joffsen Rosten, the Book Master, spoke in soft undertones to his cronies, but didn't bother to address anyone else. His face looked like a gourd, full of lumps and bumps and discolorations. His nose spread across his cheeks like an animal's snout, and a cruel mouth twisted beneath it. Only his eyes had any sort of beauty to them; a bright, flashing green sparkling with intelligence.
The first three supplicants had minor complaints the Council of the Book took care of in short time. Two beatings and a fasting were ordered for such misdemeanors as not having breakfast served on time, oversalting a dinner, and spilling water on one man's favorite hunting cloak. Daelyn said nothing each time the punishment was ordered, just lifted his finger in silent approval.
The fourth man had a weightier complaint and asked for a punishment to match.
"I've heard her laughing." The grizzle-bearded man whipped off his cap and twisted it between grimy fingers. He wore the clothes of a laborer, and he smelled of sweat. "Laughing in her quarters! Right in me own house, m'lords!"
"Abominable," said Lord Farquin Adamantane.
Lord Redly Simelbon sniffed and made a face. "Highly improper!"
The other members of the Council of the Book made similar pronouncements. Lord Rosten, face implacable, said nothing. He tilted his head to stare at the laborer, who blushed brick red under the scrutiny.
Daelyn straightened his back. "It’s not a crime for a woman to laugh in her own quarters."
"If she does it away from me, next she'll be doing it in front of me!" The man cried. "Laughing, and what next, I ask you? Speaking when not spoken to? Taking off her follyblanket?"
"You say you heard her laughing in her own rooms." Daelyn's voice didn't rise, but it became tempered with steel. "She committed no crime. I'll not grant you license to provide anything more than normal retribution."
"The beatings did nowt to stop her," the man whined. "If I take her hand –"
"If you take her hand," Daelyn said with a sneer, "she'll be useless to you. Moreover, she'll likely bleed to death or die of infection. No. I'll not countenance violence as discipline for something as menial as overheard laughter."
"But m'lord --"
"I said no!" Daelyn got to his feet and threw out his hands to the room. "Do you see any other Prince Regent here?"
The man gulped audibly, his eyes shifting toward the pair of armed guards flanking the door to the court. "I plead your mercy...."
Daelyn's eyes narrowed. He spat to one side, narrowly missing the man's feet. "I am the Word and the Law. You are dismissed."
The man nodded, his face twisted and red, and backed out of the room.
"You are the Word and the Law," spoke up Rosten amiably enough. His eyes glittered. "But the laws are old and the words older. You must uphold tradition, Daelyn. 'Tis the place of the Council of the Book to decide the fates of those who don't stay in their place."
Daelyn smoothed the front of his waistcoat and tossed his hair over his shoulders before speaking. "The tradition my father upheld? The same of my father's father, and his? A tradition of years, is that what you're saying?"
Adamantane nodded. "Of course, my lord prince. There are reasons why Alyria has the laws it does. They work. They are just. They are right."
Daelyn tutted and waved his hand. "My apologies to the Council of the Book, but traditions can change. Like fashion."
"You must set a precedent," Adamantane continued. "There have been an uprising of incidents over the past year."
I stopped fiddling with the small ball and string game I'd been toying with. Incidents? I'd heard of none, but then I'd not frequented the poetry houses where such news would have been shared. I cocked my head to listen while I tried to pretend I did not.
"Follies speaking back to their men, girl children being spirited away in the dead of night – and boy children, too! Disappearing as if they never existed! There was the issue of the folly in Yuditay Province, when she poured lamp fuel on her man while he was sleeping and burned him alive!"
"The story was that he'd repeatedly forced abnormal sexual congress upon her and beat her mercilessly," murmured Daelyn. "And she was put to death rather spectacularly as I recall. Burned and beheaded, her mouth stuffed with stones. Made an example of, I'd say. There've been no such incidents since."
"None reported," said Rosten, his tone still mild. "But what of the men who die poisoned in their sleep?"
Sudden and complete silence deafened me. Every eye had turned to look at the Book Master. He tilted his head again, and smiled.
Daelyn's father King Harrigan had died in his sleep. Some said from poison. Others said from too much rich food and drink. His death had rocked the provinces, because of its suddenness and because his throne had been filled by a boy so young he'd scarcely been out of clouts.
Daelyn's face was without expression. "Women have no place in this world, I fully agree. If I had my way, I'd send every woman a
nd girl child as far away from Alyria as I could. But that’s not within reason to do so, Rosten. Without women, we'll have no children. And a country without children is a dead one."
"It's not just the follies who are the problems," Simelbon bellowed. "It's the bleeding heart follyfuckers who think their follies ought to be allowed more freedoms! It's the men who don't know how to or can't rule their follies with the strong fist they need! It gives them ideas, makes them believe they can get away with anything!"
Daelyn had given Lir a sharp look, but now focused his attention on Simelbon. "What would you have me do?"
Simelbon left the table and pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from his purse. He thrust it toward Daelyn with a grimace like he'd touched rancid meat. "This was tacked up at the Prince's Arms sometime last night."
Daelyn settled further into his leather chair and waved at me to take the parchment. "Read it."
I cleared my throat and took the paper, though my hands felt dirty touching it after it had been in Simelbon's. "It’s a picture."
Someone had sketched a line drawing of a woman holding a child. The child, of indeterminate sex, gazed with loving eyes into the woman's face, which was uncovered. Her hair fell to her shoulders. She smiled at the child in her arms. The artist was skilled enough I could capture the essence of the moment just from a few simple lines and smudges.
Beneath the photo were the words "Givers of Life."
My hands trembling, I handed the paper to Daelyn. The picture made me want to weep. It made me yearn to hold a babe of my own. And I was angry because I knew that would never happen.
He made a snorting sound. "Well, it is a fact that women are the ones who bear life. There's naught we can do to change that."
"That...that...pornography, is an abomination." Simelbon shook his finger at the parchment. "And it's not the first such poster. There have been others. There may be more. Someone is going around the city trying to incite sympathy for females!"
"And you think it’s a woman?" Daelyn laughed aloud and rolled his eyes. "Really, Simelbon. How preposterous."
"We don't think it's a woman," put in Adamantane. "We think it's a man. Which is why we're so concerned. There's a subversive group here in the city, and we want it taken care of."
"A curfew," Simelbon said with a vigorous nod. He looked to his peers for approval. "It's obvious no man of mature age is doing this. It must be the young roustabouts!"
"Perhaps it’s but a bunch of young rowdies seeking to stir up trouble." Daelyn shrugged and ran his slim fingers through his hair to lift it from his forehead. "And naught more."
I tensed, certain Rosten would speak, but he continued in silence. His mouth twisted in an expression of amusement or anger. His glittering green eyes, the only attractive part of him, never left Daelyn's face.
Daelyn covered a yawn with the back of his hand. "I fail to see how a curfew will solve it."
Adamantane had a bad habit of grimacing as if he could enforce his opinion through sheer will. "My lord prince, 'tis clear to see that those marauders who are out and about purveying these crimes are doing so in the odd hours of the night."
Daelyn laughed, throwing his head back in merriment. I watched in fascination as the smooth skin of his throat worked. "Which hours of the night are not odd?"
Adamantane didn't looked amused. He propped his leg, so fat the knee garters cut his flesh into bulging rolls beneath the hem of his trousers, on the dais where Daelyn lounged. He didn't see, or chose to ignore, the look Daelyn gave him.
"We've discussed this before, my lord Prince."
"Indeed we have." Daelyn rose from his high-backed leather chair and stepped off the dais. He strode to the long table laden with food and drink, and poured a glass of wine. "And I've told you before, a curfew would curtail many while doing nothing to restrict the few. Think you that anyone seeking to rouse mayhem would abide by something so simple as a curfew?"
"They would if there were penalties involved." Simelbon said.
"Penalties, indeed." Rosten spoke at last in a voice like grinding metal.
For the first time, I saw a flicker in Daelyn's eyes that bespoke concern. His face remained as smooth as before, but I sensed a tension in him. "What sort of penalties would you have me set?"
"Gaol, at the very least," came Rosten's answer. "A stripping of station. Perhaps, if the crimes prove severe enough, something more...physical."
I suppressed a shudder. Rosten had the face of a monster...and the reputation to match. That’s why his title had been oft twisted from Book Master to Book Monster. A childish way of poking fun at him, but the fact nobody dared address him by that nickname proved how fearsomely he was regarded.
Rosten gave a leg and bowed so low the feather on his hat swept the floor at Daelyn's feet. "'Tis my pleasure and honor to serve the provinces in such a manner."
Daelyn's mouth twitched in distaste. "Even so, I'm not convinced we need to seek such drastic measures."
"I have a proposal then, my lord prince."
Daelyn gestured. "Speak it."
Rosten's fawning, leering grin made my skin crawl. "Give me rein to seek out these trouble makers. Let me discover for you the truth of these doings, and I'll report to you, along with my recommendations for their punishment."
Pity for the fools who'd hung the poster swept over me. Rosten's idea of justice would mean bloodshed, I was sure. Daelyn, however, seemed to relax at Rosten's suggestion.
"So be it." He smiled. "If you find them, Rosten, I guarantee you'll be able to do what you like with them."
Chapter Nine
Rosten's decree went out the next day. Any folly on the street had to have a letter from the man of her house with her at all times, stating what business she was about. Follies could congregate in their households or in the bathhouses, but any group of more than two on the street or in the markets could be arrested and their men fined.
If the follies complained, nobody heard them. Nobody ever did. The city's men didn't argue with Daelyn's new law. Rumors abounded in the poetry houses that a folly had been caught trying to poison her man's breakfast. Nobody was brought forth to face the charges, but sales of anti-poison antidotes had the city's medicus' scrambling to fulfill the demand.
"The street is no place for women, anyway." Daelyn buttered a biscuit and popped it into his mouth. "Women get into trouble on the street. They're better off at home."
Today, no court. Daelyn had opened his salon to his closest friends. Chesley Vermonte, the Fashion Master, and the others who sat on the Council of Fashion, Avaket Penryn, Bensin Freet and Ferd Garnier. Barit Wills and Jaston Moravian, members of the Council of Finance. Young lordlings who, as yet, hadn't been elected to any of the four Councils, Keve Displander, Perston Hadly and Echol Sinjin. And of course, Lir. The Fight Master. He sat on no council, yet his title accorded him as much respect as the others.
Alyria was divided into four provinces surrounding the central city, each with a specialty reflected by the rule of the council named for that specialty. The Council of Agriculture led Fernken Province, which provided most of the produce and grain. Lititzia Province, led by the Council of Fashion, was home to fields of flax, orchards full of silkbugs, warehouses loaded with dyes and woven cloth, aviaries of birds for feathers on hats. Yuditay Province had the mines for the gold and jewels used by the Council of Finance. Cornwellen Province gave the Council of the Book the fodder for new laws from the Temple of Sinder, which housed the holy books telling of his journey and the creation of the world.
The old texts made many references to "trade between countries," but the borders of Alyria had been closed to all but the rarest tradesman, for generations. We were a wealthy land, despite our self-imposed segregation and our small population. Alyria's location, snuggled between high mountain ranges on two sides, a nasty and forbidding sea on a third and a harsh desert on the fourth, had kept us safe from intruders who might seek to take the land and its wealth for themselves.
; I listened with new ears as the men discussed shipments of silk and wool, and I thought of the marketplace, where used cloth could be had at dear prices, but new cloth was almost impossible to buy. Everything in Alyria had to be used to its utmost, then torn apart and used again, and until recently I hadn't understood why.
Now I did. With no trade between countries, even the small population could overtax the land's resources. I looked around the room, filled with laughing, gorgeously dressed men of privilege. They'd never worked a day to earn the riches they wore on their backs and carried in their pockets. Suddenly, they didn't seem so gleaming and glorious to me as they had back when I saw them in the marketplace.
"Another poster was found," Vermonte said. "This time in a poetry house in the lower west quad."