He turned toward a commotion at the top of the stairs. Applause and obeisances rippled through the crowd: the Obbys had entered. A surprise: Harsin expected they'd absent themselves from any social situation where they might encounter him, at least for a few days.
A tug in Harsin's groin brought sympathy for his poor foolish son. Though Harsin's tastes didn't run to men, Issak might change anyone's mind, and Allis was in astonishing looks even for her, long black hair brilliant against luminous skin. He regretted keeping Temmin from them, but only momentarily; after tonight, Temmin might make any number of appointments with them with no more thought than Harsin ever gave it. A fluttery young man buttonholed Issak, and they disappeared into a side room.
Unexpectedly, Allis met Harsin's eye. Always be gracious to the defeated, especially the beautiful defeated, he said to himself. He strode through the parting crowd to her side.
"Your Majesty," Allis smiled, curtseying low.
"Holy One," replied Harsin with a bow. The musicians began the introduction to the next dance; he took her on his arm and they twirled onto the floor. Harsin's hand fit so delightfully at her waist--such a delicate woman for such curves. "I will be calling on you in our official capacities, soon, I think," he said.
Allis lifted a brow. "You surprise me, sir. I should have thought we would suffer from your disfavor for at least, oh, two years."
"My disfavor? How could anyone be angry with you, Miss Obby?"
"I have heard that your son's plans to join us as Supplicant have displeased you. Nevertheless, you are welcome at the Temple any time you wish. If you don't care to run into him, we're happy to offer you the Door of Discretion."
"Oh, Miss Obby, I thought it quite clear that Nerr will not be getting the Heir, at least this Heir." Harsin whipped her through a turn, but she stumbled nary a bit.
"The conversation with Lord Litta?" she said, returning his smile. "You may note His Grace's absence this evening."
"I hadn't noticed. You have my entire attention."
Her smile revealed the tips of her teeth, shining white against her rosy lips, intimate and promising, but she said nothing.
Curiosity overcame him. "What explains Litta's absence?"
She danced on tiptoe, and leaned in toward his ear. "Two things stop blackmailers," she said. "Prompt disclosure of the horrible secret they threaten to reveal, and horrible secrets of their own."
They danced in silence, Allis keeping her eyes on his face, and Harsin staring absently over her head at the yellow and blue draperies, the yellow and blue livery of the servants lining the walls, the yellow and blue flowers--Lady Valmouth's over-use of her husband's colors was giving him a headache. "I must say, Miss Obby, that I do admire your nerve," he said.
"I cannot return the compliment, I fear."
"Have a care, my dear," he said, tightening his grip around her waist. "I am an embodiment myself, the embodiment of this empire."
"Your Majesty, I am the Embodiment of a Goddess. I'm not the one who must have a care. However powerful you think you are, you are nothing compared to my Mistress."
"Your Mistress has strict rules about confidentiality. And yet you risk displeasing Her."
"You and your proxies risk your souls, sir, with far fewer qualms," she replied. "As to confidentiality, of course we would never betray any confidence given in worship, but we have many, many sources of unprivileged information. Devotees of the Lovers are in all walks of life, you know, especially one particularly intimate profession. It is not at all difficult for us to learn useful things about anyone, however high or low."
The dance ended. Allis curtsied again and sailed into the crowd, a trail of men following her.
Harsin's dinner curdled, and his restless eye skipped from face to face. Lady Litta stood in a knot of older women, jowls a-wobble, but no sign of her husband. Never mind. Winmer's plan unfolded tonight, and after that it wouldn't matter.
Temmin woke to a gentle clatter of dishes, and a savory smell of roast beef, potatoes, warm bread, and a bit of a cabbage-y smell that might be broccoli. He must have slept through tea. Did he have lunch? His stomach seemed to think he hadn't. "Jenks?" he said. He sat up and pushed the hair out of his puffy eyes.
"Harbis, Your Highness," said the valet in his irritating, melodious tenor, nothing at all like Jenks's gravel-filled baritone.
"Oh, it's you," grumbled Temmin.
"It is me, to be sure, sir," said Harbis. "If you please, sir, your dinner has been sent up. You seemed ill-disposed to dine with your family." He had perfectly appointed the little table; its damask cloth shone clean and white, and the valet's elegant, slender hands fluttered among the dishes, removing silver covers with unfamiliar gestures Temmin found annoyingly graceful.
Despite his mood, Temmin wolfed down two bowls of broccoli bisque, a plate full of oysters, most of a roast of beef, potatoes, asparagus, the whole basket of rolls, and a good-sized pudding with custard. Even after all that, he had no objection to the decanter of port, a bowl of sweetnuts and a small, aged cheese. "Thank you, Harbis," he said, remembering his manners even with this overly suave substitute for Jenks. "Now, push off. I don't want you. I'll put myself to bed," he added. Harbis bowed, eager to be gone, and nearly scampered out of the room with the service cart.
Temmin cracked nuts, setting the meats aside. He wasn't hungry any more, but the brittle crunch as he crushed each shell satisfied. He did not hold back on the port; he hadn't intended to get drunk, but drunk suited the gloom of the single lamp, and his mood. He hadn't realized how much Supplicancy had come to mean. Here the twins had just shown him part of what he might learn, what he might do, what he might see... How he suffered for their kisses.
Maybe he could still learn from them. His father might not see the utility in reading people, but he certainly did. Reading people made it so easy to lead them. Look at Issak, bending people so effortlessly, and so gently, to his will.
Warin seemed to read people. He brought them to his side, and he hadn't had Lovers' Temple training: charisma, that's what it was. His own father had it. Maybe it was genetic, and Temmin didn't need training. Harsin had only to look at you, just like Issak--but not like Issak. People feared his father, but they loved Issak; they wanted to do what he wanted them to do, whether it was pour him wine or kiss him. That was part of the twins' skill, perhaps, making you want to be led.
They'd be disappointed, but better disappointed than shamed. The tiny voice in the chapel, it would be disappointed too. Maybe angry. But what could he do? It would be worse to let Allis and Issak be hurt, wouldn't it?
He wondered what he might face when Harla took him home to the Hill, when She would weigh his crimes against his soul. How long would She torment him before he was allowed to rest forever? Centuries? Millennia?
Litta didn't seem concerned, nor did his father, even though Temmin knew he believed. Litta must be an atheist, in spite of what he'd said. To Temmin, atheists were semi-mythical creatures; no one would admit to unbelief, not if they valued their livelihoods. Or lives in some parts of the kingdom.
Worshipping a God, worshipping Allis and Issak--it was the same to him. And if it brought luck to the common people, that was for the best. Why would Litta think otherwise? Warin wouldn't have gotten his throne back without the commoners. There wouldn't be a throne without the commoners. The people were the kingdom, not just the king. But now it didn't matter, and to be honest, it figured only tangentially into his desire to take Supplicancy. It would be easier now, he told himself. He'd find some girl. There were plenty, according to that prat Fennows. Then he'd get it over with, and go to the twins. But it wouldn't be enough. He glanced at the decanter. Nearly empty, though he couldn't remember drinking it, and he didn't feel that drunk.
A whisper of fabric against carpet, and he looked up, expecting that useless Harbis. Instead, a girl stood just inside, with the door closed behind her. She quailed when she saw him, and reached for the doorknob, but steadied herself instead. She wal
ked further into the room until he could see her more clearly.
He rose in surprise. It was Arta. She wore a gown of soft green like the fine ladies she'd admired at the ball. He'd been wrong that night; she was even more beautiful dressed as a lady than she was as a maid. Pale gold freckles dusted the fine skin of her shoulders, just as he'd imagined, and her hazel eyes were brilliant even in the low light. She dropped a curtsey all the way to the floor, stumbling on the way down, and he helped her up; she quickly pulled her loose, dark curls over her shoulders in an unsuccessful attempt to cover her cleavage.
"Arta, what are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that? Not that you don't look nice--you look wonderful, actually, quite beautiful...Gods, really, really, quite, quite beautiful." She stood now, very straight and rigid, her small, shaking hand still in his. She was blushing, and she wouldn't meet his eyes. "Arta," he said more forcefully, "what are you doing here?"
"I...I am bid to say--that is, no, not bid to say..." She blinked rapidly, and began again, her voice stronger, working hard if not successfully to overcome her northern Valmouth accent. "I am here to comfort you in your disappointment, Your Highness. They--I mean, I thought you mightn' want to be alone tonight, an as you an I are friends...we might be better friends," she finished, daring a guilty glance up at his face before fixing her eyes on his shoes again.
Suddenly, she wobbled on her feet, her eyes rolled, and Temmin caught her with a "Whoa!" just as she toppled over; a whiff of perfume hit his nose, heavy roses and lilacs, not at all her usual clean smell of hay and tea. He half-carried her to the green velvet couch and sat her down, reclining against the cushions at one end with her feet still on the floor. He found the brandy decanter on a table by the wingback chair he never sat in, poured her a glass, and ordered her to drink it as soon as she could hold the glass herself.
The brandy brought color creeping back to her face. "Oh dear," she whispered. "Oh, dear, dear, I got all rickety-tick. I'm so sorry, Your Highness, I don' know what happened."
"You locked your knees. Happens every inspection back at the Estate, especially on Farr's Day. Some new man in the Guard, or a postulant Brother, always goes down from trying to stand up straight. One Farr's Day when I was eight, a whole platoon went down one after another, boom boom boom, like ninepins. That was funny," he smiled. "Feeling better? Good. Now, tell me what you're doing here, all dressed up like this."
"I told you," she mumbled into her glass. "I'm here to keep you comp'ny." A tear found its way out of her eye, and she scrubbed at it in alarm.
"And so happy to do it, I see."
"No, no, sir!" she said, sitting up all the way. "No, I like bein with you!"
"Then why are you crying? Arta, tell me. You're under my protection. No one can do anything to you, I won't let them."
"Yes, they can," she said, stumbling over words and tears. "They can! They can turn me away without a ref'rence, an Fen, too, an if I lose my position without a ref'rence, I can' get a new one, you know, and my family needs the money, sir!"
"Stop, stop, stop! Who's 'they!'"
Arta's nervous babbling stopped. "Did I say 'they,' sir?"
"You certainly did." He gave her the handkerchief from his pocket. "Now, don't give this one to Fen," he said.
She laughed and wiped her eyes, but the tears kept falling. "I shouldn' cry, I really shouldn'. T'isn that I don' like you, sir, I do! I do, very much! You're kind, an handsome, an you make me laugh. I know we should get on very well together."
He took her in again: the perfume; the carefully loosened hair; the dress that left just enough to the imagination that removing it seemed best. "Someone sent you to seduce me."
"Why did you think I was here?" she said into the handkerchief.
"Merciful Amma, d'you think girls just show up at my door at all hours? Who sent you, Arta? No tears! Just answer!"
"Mr Winmer, sir," she said, wrenching herself into such a knot that he took to rubbing her back, soothing her loose again.
"And what did he say you were to do?"
"I was to lie with you, sir. That's why I'm all dressed up." She glanced up, guilty. "He knows you like me. You do like me, don' you, sir?"
"I don't know any man who wouldn't. You could charm Farr Himself."
"Oh, I don' think so, sir, especially with my eyes all puffy an red." She wiped her nose. "Mr Winmer knew you liked me because he saw us dancin in the hall that night. I am so sorry, Your Highness! It was my fault for peekin. He caught me just after, an said he could either tell Mr Affton an have me turned away, or I could owe him a favor. So I owed him a favor. An here I am."
A clear image of Winmer came to mind, the little man's eyes bulging as Temmin throttled him. "Why tonight?"
She bit her lip, and took his hand. "Mr Winmer said you'd gotten some bad news and couldn' go to the Temple after all, an that you were sad an lonely, an that I should make you feel better because you think I'm pretty an you'd like it if I did. An that wouldn' be so bad, would it, because we do like each other, and then he'd make sure I was taken care of an that Mam an Dad would be, too, an if you liked me well enough, you'd take care of me even better, so here I am, to make you feel better."
"He threatened you."
"Oh, no, sir! He just...he explained things to me. It's all right." Arta gave him an unsteady smile, and cradled his cheek. "You're so kind to me. If this is what you want, if this will make you feel better, then..." She rose up on one knee, her breasts nearly spilling from the neckline of the dress, and kissed him.
The kiss edged away the misery of the day, mixing with the port that suddenly made itself evident in the languor of his limbs, a drowsiness that shifted to arousal as she opened her mouth to him. He remembered kissing her before; he'd brought himself, more than once, remembering that kiss and her slim waist in his arms. He slipped his arms around her now, and kissed her down against the cushions. She was here for him, his consolation. She was the girl who would open the road to Allis and Issak in the most delightful way possible.
One hand slipped from her shoulder to the tops of her breasts, mounded above her corset, and the pulse between his legs nearly burst the buttons of his trousers. He kissed her jaw and her soft, soft neck, where the perfume she wore mingled with her own natural scent. She wriggled beneath him as he worked his hand further into her bodice and freed one breast, the nipple hard between his fingers. He pulled away, wanting to see all of her.
Arta lay back, panting, hazel eyes full, face pink and turned toward the couch's cushioned back, her breast white and rose against the dark green velvet. White, rose, green.
Temmin started away, sick. "This is not what you want. You're afraid. Someone's making you do this."
"Oh!" said Arta, blinking back tears. "Oh, no, sir! I mean, yes! Yes it is what I want!" She wiggled the other breast free. "D'you not like me any more? Please say you still like me! Please!"
"Of course I like you, good Gods, look at you! Augh, no, not looking at you, not looking at you!" He got up from the couch with an effort and turned away. "Dress yourself, Miss Dannikson!"
"Please, Your Highness, please!" she begged. He heard the rustling of fabric. "Please...Temmin..." He turned at the unfamiliar sound of his name on a servant's lips, to discover she hadn't covered her breasts, she'd taken off her dress; she trembled above the green puddle of fabric, in only stockings, little boots, a short chemise and her awkwardly skewed corset.
Temmin did his best to think of Jenks in his underwear, but the charm had no chance against a nearly-naked Arta; his only defense was distance. He groaned and backed away. "If you don't put your clothes on, something's going to happen here, something neither of us want."
"You don' understand," she pleaded. "We have to do this. It's bad trouble for me, worse than you know. They can bring Fen in after what he did that time in the King's Woods--everyone knows what really happened. If Fen's taken for treason--oh, sir, they'll hang his head over Marketgate! Please! If Mr Winmer finds out you wouldn', he'll blame
me! It's as good as killin Fen myself!" She broke into sobs.
Winmer would die, there was no way around it. He'd pluck out that little mustache a hair at a time, and then he'd stomp what genitalia the man possessed into a pulp, and then he'd hang him by the heels and let him bleed to death from his groin. "It's going to be all right," he finally said. "Come here, you goose. No, with your dress. I'm not going along with this little trap my father's set. Tuck yourself in--I refuse to do it for you. How d'you fasten this thing up?" Arta wept so hard she couldn't speak, but she let him maneuver her arms into their sleeves, resigned and limp. He figured out the fastenings himself, and when he finished, said, "No one's going to kill Fen. D'you hear me? No one's going to kill him. I won't let them." Arta fell against his chest, and he let her cry. "Dannikson, this is a very bad habit of yours."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you believe you are safe with me, and that Fen is safe with me?"
"Sir, he said--"
"I am the Heir. Winmer is a secretary."
"Secretary to His Majesty!" She went to wipe her eyes with the handkerchief, found it sodden, and shook it out as if to flick the tears and snot from it.
"Give me that," he said, replacing it with the last one in his pocket. He led her back to the couch and sat her down again. "Now listen, I will get us all out of this."
"It's no use, sir," she said mournfully. "Even if we don', you'd have to make them think we did. The staff prob'ly already think it. Fen'll leave me for bein untrue. But he'll be alive." She propped an elbow on the arm of the couch and rested her chin on her hand. "I wish I'd never left home, but when Auntie said there was a place for me here..."
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